The Measure of a Man
by kasey8473
Summary: Chapter 25 uploaded. Story Complete The aftermath of AKT. Adhemar and Christiana
1. The Measure of a Man

Title: The Measure of a Man  
Author: kasey8473 / Kes / Karen S.  
Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com  
Summary: In the aftermath of A Knight's Tale, Adhemar has a moment of thought.  
Rating: PG-13 for language  
Notes: Just a short, trying to get into Adhemar's mind.  


  
  
What is it about some women that can bring a man to the very precipice of that cliff insanity and inspire him to contemplate murder? Is it a mannerism, some character trait, that pushes reason from one's head? Or is it just a physical thing, a primal call to claim the one female obviously in heat?  
  
And let there be no doubt that the beauteous Lady Jocelyn was in heat.  
  
Still is. But circumstances have placed her delectable charms from my reach and I must play the gentleman, though I've never made any claims to be such a weak creature. No, I am a soldier as well as a Count, and true gentleman have no place in the sorts of games I excel at. I'll make no apologies for being ruthless.  
  
That trait of mine, that ruthless quality, was one reason I felt that the Lady and I were well suited. Let me explain. The Lady Jocelyn is no shrinking violet, or harmless bit of fluff like she portrayed herself to Thatcher. No, that one is cunning. She plays the games rather well and others besides myself took note of the selfishness she holds within her breast. If she believes that Thatcher's men all love her and care for her, then she is deluding herself. Her beauty will fade and all she will have is her wits and skill at games.  
  
One day, Thatcher will wake up, turn to his prize, and see that she is all he truly does not care for. He will see her, see that selfish glint in her eyes. And he will wonder, as I do, how the craving of having her legs uncrossed can steal the humanity and indeed, the very manhood, from one.  
  
I weighed him and measured him, and he did the same with me. But did either of us realize that to lust for Jocelyn would be the true measure of our selves? Did either of us know that the scent of that bitch would make us face every single part of our selves, including painful revelations?  
  
No, we did not.  
  
I have been weighed.  
  
I have been measured.  
  
And what was found has me thoughtful. Pensive.  
  
I am a ruthless man, there is no other way to put it. I do kill in battle. I do what needs to be done to win wars and yes, I have even taken some darker amusements from the peasants we conquer. But I have never, before that joust, attempted cold blooded murder. Contemplated murder, why a score of times at least! But attempted....No. There's a difference between the thought of doing so and the reality of having a tip placed on your lance in order to kill your opponent.  
  
Yes, I have been found wanting. I, Count Adhemar, have been found lacking in some way and I know not how to change that, or even if I want to change. Who knew that the lust for one woman would change everything? Who knew that sanity was so fine a line to walk? The plain and simple is thus: women have it and we, the men, want it. They know it and they use it against us. Jocelyn certainly did.  
  
She is the past now and Thatcher will be forgotten. Some other woman will come into my sight. How close am I to that cliff? Will I attempt murder again?   
  
And will I then, as I do now, wonder if that attempt is what caused me to become lacking?


	2. Resolution and Prayer

Title: Resolution and Prayer

Author: Kasey / Kes/ Karen (yes, all one person)

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Jocelyn's thoughts a short while after the end of the movie.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: Another short, this one from Jocelyn's POV. Possibly leading into a story arc.

Arrogant wretch! Those two words I find do suit Count Adhemar most thoroughly. He pursues women as though we are some sort of possession he can show off. Men, he brushes aside as opponents. He is the sort of man to have no confidante, no bosom friend to share the 'victories' and 'defeats' of life with, for victories and defeats are how he must see life, an endless series of tournaments to be played.

I pity that view. I pity the man who cannot give of himself to another human being, because in that 'endless game' view of life so much is lost. Fellowship. What glorious fellowship there is to be had! The appreciation for quiet moments and the wonders of the world.

He must be so very lonely.

I am most blessed and wealthy in comparison to him, despite my sex and the ridiculous and tedious restrictions placed upon women. I have a loving and understanding, albeit crown-fawning, father who could not see me unhappy, a husband-to-be who is everything a woman could want, and friends I never would have met without Will.

Roland, Wat, Kate and Goeff.

Oh sure, they're wary of me. 'Tis understandable after the trial I put Will through to test his devotion. I had to do it though. I had to know where his heart truly lay. That done, never will I test him again. He is true in his love. As for his friends, Lord willing, they will come around.

Christiana tells me she has received word from her father. I am surprised by this, as he's ignored her for the most part since he sent her to my family when she was a child. It seems that he doesn't want her with me any longer. Christiana says he wrote of 'a peasant influence he was angry she'd gotten.' He is currently negotiating a marriage contract for her. I pray for Christiana's happiness.

I will be sorry to see her go, for she is my dearest friend, a confidante above all. She alone knows the pain my heart carried these long past months, the despair that my love was not returned. She alone knew of my full distaste for Adhemar. A good friend is priceless. Perhaps Kate will be willing to speak with me. I do not see myself acquiring another maid very soon after Christiana leaves and I find I enjoy Kate's no-nonsense, practical manner. She is a grounding force when I find myself far too whimsical. Yes, Kate will be a good sort of friend, should she be willing.

There will be no maid, as I do not wish to tax Will's coffers beyond what he can afford. I _am_ going to be a good wife and stewardship is a part of marriage. I know there will be hardships and those I face most willingly. My beauty will fade away as the winters and summers speed by, but my hope is that whatever wit and cunning I possess will be well used to see us fed and clothed and by a warm hearth when the night is too chill for comfort. Beauty is not what is important, contrary to Adhemar's obvious belief. What is important is the person you are beneath it all, beneath the clothes and the trappings of your class.

The measure of one is what can be found inside.

I am more than clothes and beauty; more than the name Jocelyn or the sex of woman. I am human, and like all humans I see, hear, feel, but unlike many I do learn from my mistakes. My most recent mistake was to play silly games in what is truly a serious business: courtship. There are so many 'should haves' that I see now. I am grateful to be past courtship and onto marriage.

There will be no games for Will and I save those we play together.

I shall be, forever, Jocelyn Thatcher, proud and dutiful wife of Sir William Thatcher, and a silly girl no longer. 

Adhemar would say I've lowered myself.

No.

I have been elevated and he will surely never know a love that can transcend class distinction, a love that transforms and makes you better for it's presence. He will forever labor under the notion that love is a feeling, a 'silly notion of women', and something for the weak of mind.

But love is not a feeling. It's an act of the will. I love Will Thatcher, by all the strength of my will.

Adhemar I pity, and pray that someday_ he_ will lower himself for love, and know what it is to be whole.


	3. Fate Comes

Title: Fate Comes

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Christiana ponders her fate.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: After much consideration as to the wisdom of doing this, I have decided to definitely turn these shorts into a story. I will state now that chapters may be long in coming and that the rating may be changed in later chapters to 'R'. The last long fan fiction story arc took me well over a year to complete. 

~~~~~~~~~~

I sit in my Lady's tent and wait. The day of my release from employ has come and the hour of my journey draws near. Little did I know as a child those long years past that my father would do such an about-face for my fate.

I was born the seventh daughter of Hugh Devereaux, a man desperate for sons, so desperate that he's worn out five wives in pursuit of a suitable heir. A woman will not do to inherit his meager holdings. He named me Christiana, a nod to the life of nun he planned for me from birth. He has always said thus, although why he didn't leave me at St. Anne's is a mystery. Was he fond of me in his own way? Did he know the life of a nun would not inspire happiness in me? We took a tour, spoke to the Prioress, and he took me back home. A few weeks later I was with Jocelyn.

Jocelyn's family took me in, welcomed me with arms wide open. I was tutored with her, treated as another daughter, a companion and not the maid I truly was. My father was content to leave me there. He rarely wrote over the years and it did not bother me a bit. There is no love lost between us. 

What now has turned my father's mind? I wish that I could once understand him. He drops me with no second thoughts and little contact, then suddenly decides I must wed? Has something happened to my sisters that I must leave all I know and go out into an uncertain life? Has it fallen to me now to make an alliance that will further the family coffers?

I know that I will be an adequate wife, for I've been trained in wifely things. I can sew, run a household and tend the ill. I will do so. I will run my Lord's household, tend him and bear his children if God so wills it. But I find contemplation of these things leaves me sad for what I must leave behind me. The years with Jocelyn's family made me content to be a companion. Being separated is frightening.

Outside, I hear a commotion, the sounds of many feet and horses approaching. In moments I shall be called to go and there is still so much I wish to ponder. Oh, time runs from me on such swift, merciless feet!

Roland. Dear, sweet and gentle Roland, whose embroidery is the loveliest I've ever seen. I love him, yet I am not _in_ love with him. With overwhelming regret I do wish I had told him I was noble born, the lowliest daughter of a poor Lord. But I was silent and I can still hear the pain that tinged his voice in the whispered word 'why'. My deception was similar to Sir Will's. I did not admit to what I am until too late. I am in the stocks as Sir Will was, but I shall not escape that bondage. No, mine shall last my life.

Wat has nothing to say and I expected as much. As for Kate, she simply said, "If not on earth, you and I will meet again in heaven." My Lady Jocelyn's reaction is what I expected upon the certain news of my coming nuptials. She cries still and once even pleaded to her father for intervention. Sir Will comforts her and says they must wish me every happiness. It is not the end of the world. Nothing states she cannot write to me.

Goeff. I must laugh now, although somewhat hysterically. I am not the only one leaving the company of friends. He returns to London and his life after today, no longer to herald for Sir Will. He alone out of all is aware of the contents of the many letters I have received these last weeks, most from my future husband. Goeff and I have held long and heated discourse about those letters and, despite his urgings to unburden myself to friends, I have not revealed the contents to all.

I will be a dutiful wife no matter what happens. I will be silent and meek and obedient. My Lord will not find fault with me and perhaps, through my honoring him at all times we shall enjoy a union without conflict. A large hope I realize and one I will continue to pray for.

A little tenderness.

Some consideration.

A kind word now and then.

These I pray to have.

I hear them now, outside, Jocelyn's "No!" loud and piercing. Will's voice is muted, too low to pick out the words, only his angry tone audible. Goeff sweeps open the tent flap and looks in at me, great weariness aging him, all levity lost from fine features.

"My...Lady." His voice almost breaks on the title I feel I have no right to. "Your husband-to-be is waiting."

Make them understand, dear God, why I did not tell them.

There are more shouts, more angry tones.

I nod.

And go to Adhemar.


	4. A Certain Madness

Title: A Certain Madness

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar thinks on his latest course of action.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: Look for the rating on this to change to 'R' in the next couple chapters.

~~~~~~~~~~

What sort of madness has seized me in unyielding grasp? To ask for Christiana Devereaux in certainly a sign of some exotic illness, for the girl brings nothing to me save some barren lands and her own slender form. My family does not profit from her; indeed she is but one step above middle class peasant.

I watch her as we ride for my home to meet my family. She speaks mostly only when spoken to and on the rare occasion when words fall voluntarily from her lips, her eyes are lowered. That display of womanly obedience is an irritant to me after the bold women that travel to watch the Tournament. I find I want to see her velvet brown gaze, see whatever emotion she is attempting to hide.

And she is hiding something I am certain.

But what? What could this tiny slip of a girl have to hide from me? I have my suspicions. Jocelyn was not the only one overly familiar with peasants. I know from my sources that Christiana spent much time in the company of one man. All it takes is a single stolen moment to pluck the desirable fruit of womanhood. Did he do so? Did she lay her slender form down upon stable straw and let him have the gift of her virtue? Perhaps I am of evil mind, but I do not trust the ability of a maiden to keep herself from an eager swain when she is in the throes of passion's call. Too many women have come willing to me with only token protest for me to believe that the peasant man did not take her.

A tic takes my left eye, as often happens when I am vexed, and I turn my gaze from her. Blast all, why did I look to her? Why did I choose her? I should be searching Court for a suitable woman to wife, yet here I am scraping at a past best forgotten and wallowing in it. My vow to move on is dust beneath my mount's hooves. I pick at the remembrance of that final joust, a wound that bleeds anew when the scab is torn away, and I wallow in that humiliation.

Christiana's presence rips that scab clear. I do bleed and feel phantom twinges of blistering pain from flesh wounds that have only just healed.

I cannot deny her beauty. In all truth, she rivals Jocelyn for title of fairest. As for her wifely qualifications, I have been assured she can do the job. Old Hugh was chortling in his ale over his cleverness in having Jocelyn's family hire and train her at their expense. The cheap fool seems to think I would be impressed by his common maneuvering. And it is common. I am certain he will soon hint that I should replenish his family coffers. He is mistaken in thinking I will do so. Christiana is his no longer. I have paid for her. A strip of land I have always hated but is near his home was price enough. That land is already worth far more than the paltry bit he gave with Christiana. Let him sell it if he needs money.

I snort at that. Christiana glances at me, quickly lowering her gaze from mine. Anger rises within me, anger that she will not look directly at me. I swallow it, clenching my teeth until the urge to grab her chin and force it up passes. She will see courtesy from me I vow, despite my suspicions. Then, I give her a bland smile. "Do you require rest, Christiana?"

"No, my Lord," is her quick reply, her head shaking in negative. "I am content to travel as long as you are."

Some things I cannot help. Rolling my eyes is one of them, but of course the girl sees none of it as her eyes are firmly trained on the path ahead. "And if I am content to ride straight through, will you remain content?"

She pauses before answering, her mouth opening and gaze rising about bush height. She is likely thinking on the days it will take before we come to my home and the hardship such a journey would be in the end. "All day?"

"And night."

Her head turns ever so slightly my way and she nods. "I shall be content."

A laugh, which I disguise as a grunt, escapes me. The little liar! I long to break her of being so agreeable. "You would not be content. No woman would be content, and neither would many men, to race at such speed without pause. Do not lie to me because you think I want blind obedience from you."

There is the question though, and one I need to examine more fully in the privacy of my tent. What _do_ I want from her? A silent woman is a good thing, but at times a woman need not remain so. Do I want her to speak out? Do I want her silent? I am unsure of which I desire most from her. Do I want to hear a woman's uneducated opinions on matters she has no business poking her delicate nose into?

"I do not mean to displease, my Lord."

"Well, you do displease."

"I beg forgiveness for doing so."

She is biting her lip, teeth dragging along it. Her knuckles are white she is clenching the reigns so hard. A reaction. An honest reaction and not that wimpy show of acquiescence. Something akin to satisfaction rolls through me, cooling my anger, releasing the knots in my shoulders. I can get to her. She will try to hide it, but I can break her down. Eventually. "Forgiven." I will be Master over her.

"Thank you, my Lord."

We ride in relative silence for awhile. In gradual degrees, a perverse desire takes hold of me. I desire to hear my christened name issued by her husky voice. I am curious as to how it will sound. Not Adhemar, but my _name, _the one my mother insisted upon and my father hated. She has yet to use it since I collected her from Thatcher's rag-tag band, and the phrase 'my Lord' is fast becoming tiresome. "My name, Christiana. Tell me my name. I would hear it from you."

She looks away, then back, beautiful eyes touching upon mine for a brief second, "Etienne," before taking flight. Her lips are curved. Does she feel she has won some small skirmish by that request of my name from her?

Perhaps she has won at that. I am tone deaf by nature, blind to the music that most love. I cannot hear the flowing, lilting cadences that most find so pleasing. It comes to my ears as a jumbled din, a noise that has no purpose save to annoy. I have no pleasure in that wretched noise, _but_ my name from her throat has the sound of an angel choir to my ears, sweet and pure, a music that I can finally hear. A shiver trickles along my spine, from a breeze of course, a reaction of cold air to sweat soaked linen....

The leaves are still. There is no breeze.

We ride on.


	5. Revealed

Title: Revealed 

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Christiana has a private conversation with Adhemar.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: I've reconsidered the previous 'R' rating. There will be a future chapter, or more, that will be edited to keep the rating at PG-13 on FF.Net, while the full chapter will be at my website. Any questions, email me.

**__**

Thank you to all those who have reviewed the chapters thus far. Your comments are greatly appreciated. 

Also, the links I have used for research on the medieval time period are listed on the links page at my website (see my profile for the address) if anyone is interested.

~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the leisured slow pace set for our journey, I find myself exhausted. It is not difficult to discern the cause for my fatigue. Fear is a draining emotion and I greatly fear the unpredictability of Count Adhemar. He is a constant presence at my side during the day, riding that great horse, his imperious glance occasionally falling to me. He is a reminder that my days as a carefree maiden are over. My job as his wife will be a serious endeavor I know, for I do not foresee much in the way of laughter in the future.

No, my future seems most bleak, gray days stretching to the last final day of my life with little to no sunshine. Without glancing at him, I know that his jaw is set in a hard, unyielding line, that sharp gaze of his scanning the road ahead for thieves, his carriage straight and tall. He is every inch the arrogant noble man, certain of his place in society and his rights to do as he pleases.

He appears so humorless, this stern man beside me. How can any man live without merriment? Does he never give a true laugh? Do his lips ever twitch with a smile of amusement that does not have a dark beginning? I long for the merry giggles Jocelyn and I shared over the outrageous antics of some of her suitors. We would stay awake long after we should have been in slumbers, talking and laughing in a silly way. I want such silliness to return to my life. There has been none since leaving Will's camp.

I also long for the loving touch of another human being. He does not touch me if he can help it and his only touches are those of common courtesy: giving me his arm so that I will not stumble and helping me dismount, although he generally leaves that task for Germaine. I feel almost leprous. Jocelyn's family was rather demonstrative in their affection. Hugs were exchanged at the slightest welcoming turn. To not have such affection makes a coldness settle within me. How could I have misinterpreted the tone of his letters? As to that, how could Goeff? We both came to the same conclusion: that Count Adhemar was quite eager for me.

I remember Goeff going through the last letter with me, his hands trailing the air in graceful emotion-filled gestures. "What does he really want?" he'd asked for about the hundredth time. "There has to be something! He goes all hot for Jocelyn then turns that onto you? Not that you are not comely, Christiana for you are quite beautiful, but Adhemar does no thing without a motive. Why you?" Indeed.

No, there were no romantic words or flowery phrases of poetry like Will sent to Jocelyn. I would have thought him touched in the head if any had been included. The eager tone was in the descriptions he wrote of all the arrangements he had undertaken to fetch me. Those, he described in length, with specific instructions on what I could bring with me to his home. He also spoke of his expectations for me, that I should bear him many children.

Children. Once upon a time I had girlish dreams of falling in love and marrying a man I adored. In that dream, we had beautiful children and my life was rosy. There is a twinge of jealousy in my breast that Jocelyn is living _my_ dream. She has fallen for gallant Will and marries her perfect knight even as I travel for my own wedding. She shall have the children of a man she loves and what of me?

I am to be chained for life to a man who is feared and despised. I will submit my will to his in all things and pray he does not hurt me, while my belly rounds out each year so he can have sons. Maybe I will pray for a daughter. But if I had a daughter, would I then see a gentle emotion in him? Would a tiny girl reaching her arms up to her papa bring him pleasure? Or would she be sent away as my own father saw fit to do with me?

Best I pray for sons so as not to displease as my fathers wives all did.

Oh, it is useless to think on this! Time will tell the things I wonder on, God revealing the course of my fate in His own time.

I stop my continuous pacing of my tent and flop down onto my bed. I should compose a letter to Jocelyn, but I do not know where to begin. Besides, I am rather comfortable in the unlit confines of my tent, darkness settling as night lowers upon the earth. Jocelyn may or may not have understood my feeling of duty to a father who had been determined to forget my existence. I do not _have_ to marry Etienne Adhemar. In theory, I can _not_ be forced into doing so. I will marry him though. While I have no love for my father, I am very aware of the duty of a daughter. It is my duty to marry the man he has seen fit to give me to. He must have a good reason for joining me to this Count.

I admit, I am puzzled as to why the Count of Anjou, a wealthy man far above the station of my own family's situation, would want me. Goeff was right. Why me? God's will should not be questioned, yet I am most puzzled by Adhemar's will.

The tantalizing scents of roasting meats drift in to me. My stomach gives a horribly loud rumbling and I sigh. For the duration of this long drawn out process of going to his home, I have dined alone a goodly number of the nights. Germaine would bring me a tray and leave me to eat or not, whatever my whim. My intended would not speak to me or even glance at me after his tent was erected. Will I eat alone this night? I wonder, for he has called me into his tent. I know from hearing his men speak that tomorrow will see us at his home. I tremble at the thought that I will soon see the sort of family that raises a man such as he. Are they as cold as he? As demanding and merciless? As frightening?

I get up, limbs heavy with a bit of dread, leave my tent, and walk around the fire to his tent, my hands clenched in the fabric of my skirts. Whatever he has to say, it is private and away from his men. No ear shall hear our conversation and this alone frightens me. Will I be berated for some wrong I am not aware of committing? I am in a constant state of uncertainty. His men have stationed themselves as far from our two tents as possible and only Germaine greets me, as nervous as he always is. How much of that nervousness, I wonder, is truly him, or simply a by-product of his posting?

Germaine gives a tiny tilt of his head. "Good evening my Lady." His manners rival that of any courtier and I know him to be much the gentleman. He opens the tent flap for me and, with an answering nod to him, I enter.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness candles make in contrast to the deep twilight outside. He must be eager to be home I decide, for his tent is sparsely furnished. There is a table and two chairs, a trunk and through the open flap at the back I see a large bed. What I do not see, or rather who, is Etienne. Strange to think of him by that name, but I force myself to use it with regularity. It is more appropriate for a wife to use than the other and I will be his wife before long.

I clear my throat. Should I sit? I dare not anger him, so I remain standing. My thoughts race. To speak privately is not a thing I wish with him, yet again, I suppose I must begin to become familiar with him. I do not see him allowing me to be less than a wife in full. I will not be less unless it is his wish I be so. Duty must be done. Again, I hold no love for my parent, but I will honor his house and his decision in wedding me to Adhemar.

He appears from the back, shrugging into a fresh shirt. I am struck by how tired he looks in the light of the candles. The hollows of his cheeks are emphasized and there is heavy stubble on the hard line of his jaw. I cannot help but admire those pleasing chiseled lines and curves of his face. He motions to the table. "We will have a light repast this eve."

Scarcely are we seated before Germaine bears a large tray in to us. Our meal is silent save the sounds of our eating. Germaine remains, filling our cups. Etienne does not glance at me as he eats, his gaze on the table top and at times far away, as though he is lost in memories. I eat slowly. The food has no taste to me and, although I stall the moment as long as possible, we are soon alone, the signs of our evening repast taken away.

He stands, paces about, long legs striding back and forth from one side of the tent to the other. He is weary, but there is a strength, a coiled energy, that rests along his limbs and makes me cautious. "What was his name?"

The question takes me by surprise. I should have expected it eventually though. It was naïve to assume he would not mention it. "My Lord?" My hands clench in my lap, cold and trembling. Perspiration makes them clammy.

"The man you took to your bed. The _peasant_." The word is fairly snarled. "What was his name?"

All save that one word is issued in a pleasant lilt and he stops, his wide back to me. Etienne rolls his head on his neck and I hear something crack, loud as a whip striking. I have nothing to hide. Truly. Oh, I know who he means. Roland. I did not take Roland to my bed though. I was tempted, but something always held me back right at the point of no return. Roland understood my reticence. Were I to plead my innocence of the charge though, I feel Etienne would not believe me. He has judged me already.

"Christiana."

Still a pleasant tone and I cringe at it. I must say something. Silence much longer will surely damn me as much as speaking. "I am untouched," I whisper.

Etienne turns with a laugh and I see his eyes are so very cold. There is no warmth there at all in those frigid hazel depths. "You deny it?" Incredulity wars with anger on his handsome face. Those mixed together give him an intense quality and I cannot turn from the man at all.

"I do."

He sets his cup down with such force that the dregs of wine are sloshed out onto the table top. He steps back, hands clenching again and again into tight fists. "We will not be wed until your...women's trouble...has passed for the month. Then I shall be certain any child you bear is mine."

I feel a flush warming my skin. Gentlemen do not speak of such things freely. That he should do so is embarrassing. But, I should remember he is not the average man. He speaks of what he wishes, when he wishes. My lips remain closed. Now, I think, is the time to stay silent. If I speak again, I could find myself beaten. _Beaten. _The possible reality of that causes my breath to shorten, the blackness of a faint pulling at the edges of my vision, narrowing my view of the world. I force myself to slow my breathing and my sight eases back from the tunnel it was sliding into. A mild dizziness remains.

He rests his palms on the table and leans over me. I smell the wine on his breath. Is he on the path to drunkenness this night? Is that the reason for his need to know? "Were I certain you were pure, little Christiana, I would make you mine. Right now. Tonight. But my own doubts keep you safe." My heart skips a beat. I am perused, a maddening slow glance down me and back up, another delectable morsel at his table. Etienne lingers at the swell of my breasts, his tongue wetting his lips.

I should be disgusted by the drunkenness I see now that he is up close, but instead am intrigued by a brief glimpse of hurt in those hazel orbs. I find honest emotion there, instead of cold and calculating detachment. It occurs to me that he has been injured in the past, I suspect long before he set his sights on Jocelyn. What was done to him to cause him to bury his feelings; to make him the harsh man he is today?

His mouth grazes my ear, breath hot. "Run to your tent, girl." Each word is emphasized with care so that he does not slur them. His fingers caress the side of my face and lower, stopping their downward path at the neckline of my gown. He drags them along the edge of the fabric, a tickling sensation that raises gooseflesh all along me. His mouth moves, takes mine in greedy swoops, pressing me back into my chair. My hands raise to his chest, palms flat against the fine linen of his shirt. I feel the cloth soft beneath my hands and the scorching heat of a man's flesh as I struggle to remain passive, that careful line of obedience I must walk before him. 

The flush on my face is now burning, his teeth nipping my lower lip as he draws back a space. "Run or damn my doubts girl, I will take you now."

I gasp, a tremor working through me. I glance to my right and catch sight of his large bed, the covers turned down and inviting. I cannot say that he would not dare, for he would very certainly dare. He would lift me in his arms and take me into that temporary room, his will overriding mine. I would find myself devoured, his insistent hands and mouth and body making me his. He _would_ take me and if I conceived, he would spend a lifetime in anguish from his doubts, never certain the child was his. 

Etienne's lips brush my temple and he pushes himself away from me. I see his hands tremble as mine do, but the realization is not comforting. His hands tremble from suppressed desire, mine from my panic.

I flee, and find myself crying, cheeks wet with tears. My hands wipe at them as I go to my solitary bed.

Do I cry for myself or for the glimpse of terrible pain I saw in him?


	6. Arrival

Title: Arrival

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: The travelers arrive at Adhemar's home.

Rating: This chapter is PG-13.

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: In regard to Adhemar's problem with music, it occurred to me, after posting the last chapter, that some of you readers may not have seen the deleted scenes on the DVD. There is a scene where it is explained that he is 'deaf to the tones'. Also in the deleted scenes, is a scene where Christiana goes off with Roland, but I have an explanation for her claims of innocence, which will come in a later chapter.

~~~~~~~~~~

Does she think no one can hear her weeping? She railed her pain for all to hear throughout the night. And yet I must give her some meager respect, for this morning she shows no signs of that incessant crying that kept me up through all the wee hours. I had to drink large quantities of wine and ale to dull the sound of her screeching. Her eyes are not red and swollen and she does not have a splotchy face from it. Perhaps she is one of those few women who are pretty when they cry. Or perhaps she simply knows how to hide it.

In any case, she sits serenely on her mount, showing no sign of that crying. I want to hurt her, to do anything to know exactly what she feels behind her courteous manner. It is like an itch I cannot quite reach, that desire. The more she attempts to hide herself from me, the more I want to rip into her.

Maybe I should not have confronted her last night. Perhaps it was I who caused her to cry, although I do not remember being an ogre to her. I remember asking about the peasant man and then kissing her, although both are somewhat blurry and out of focus. I know she did not give me a satisfactory answer to the first, but the second was most satisfactory and rousing. I almost smile at the pleasant memory of her lips quivering beneath mine, her breasts rising and falling with her breath and her skin silky smooth to touch. Almost. Excruciating pain rolls within my skull, banishing the pleasure of the memory.

Oh dear God, my head. It aches, it throbs, it feels ten sizes larger than yesterday. The sound of the men behind us is driving me insane. A lesser man would bid the journey end for the day and wait until the pain is gone before continuing. I am not a lesser man. We must be home. I am weary of being away and there are myriad things I must attend to, things I have been putting off for far too long. Once home, I believe I will have mother mix me a potion for this pain.

A thought occurs to me. Christiana is to be my wife. Isn't the wifely thing to tend to her husband when he is hurting? Well, I am hurting. Ye God, am I hurting. She will mix up some herbs for me. I look at her. She's been giving me a wide berth this morning since her customary greeting and is now in quiet conversation with Germaine, but why should I not interrupt? I am Lord. I am Master. She will obey me. I call for a stop and dismount, going to her and jerking her from the saddle. She stumbles, but manages to keep to her feet.

"Etienne? My Lord?"

I pull her to the side of the path. "My head aches. I bid you to fix it. Now."

A tiny frown curls her brow as she stares up at me, for once her face not meekly lowered. Her lips curve. I suspect she is on the verge of smiling and if she does, I will slap her, I swear I will, even though I have never hit a lady before. "What sort of hurt?" She steps close and lowers her voice. Behind her, Germaine cringes. Why he starts so I haven't the slightest. Nervous man. Christiana touches my arm with one tentative hand. "A trifle too much ale? Or just a simple ache?"

"Simple?" My brows raise. "I am being beaten over the head by a sadistic invisible imp with a lance. I do not call that a simple ache."

She lowers her face, then raises it again, gathering courage it feels. "But if he is beating you because you imbibed a little much, then the remedy is different. And less pleasant."

I shrug off her hand and cross my arms over my chest. She has to ask which? Mother never has to ask. For that matter, the surgeon never has to ask. But she does? "What do you think?" I narrow my eyes at her, waiting for her reply. Her glance sweeps the crowd of men stopped a discreet distance from us and she bites her lip before answering me.

"I think you drank too much last night and are taking it out on all of us."

I blink. "I am not taking it out on everyone. My head just hurts." I take a deep breath. Now I sound like a petulant child and to be so is to show weakness. I am not a child, nor shall weakness be tolerated. "Fine." I will admit it. "I drank one too many. Fix it."

"Of course." She excuses herself and returns long minutes later with a cup. I sniff it and swallow a gag. Whatever she has put in it, it is foul smelling and no doubt tastes just as vile. Christiana touches the bottom of the cup with two fingers. "You must drink all of it and quickly. I suggest you move so that your men cannot see you."

With a snarl, I stomp off into the forest and down the drink in four swallows. My stomach immediately tries to crawl out my throat. I double over and am thankfully silent through it all. A cool hand touches my brow as I crouch, waiting for the world to stop changing colors. Christiana is beside me. She wipes a wet cloth over my face in tender strokes, then hands another cup to me.

"Water mixed with wine. Rinse and spit."

I do so. As the world returns to normal around me, I find my head is clearer and much of the ache diminished. Her remedy works better than the one my mother favors. I stand, legs a bit shaky from my heaving exertions. "I thank you." The words do not come easy for me. Never have. She shrugs, the possible beginnings of a genuine smile on her lips.

"There is nothing to thank for. It is my duty to help."

With a nod, I wave her back to the path and take my time returning.

The rest of the journey is swift, as we were not far from my home and my mother is waiting for us in the courtyard, my two sisters and grandfather with her. For their benefit I help Christiana from her horse and lead her forward. Her hand trembles in my own. What is she afraid of? Them? Or me?

With a gruffness that is characteristic of my grandfather, he steps to us, resting his weight on a tall staff that I know very well he does not need to support him. He also drags his left leg slightly behind him and I wonder what, if anything, has happened to cause this limp in my absence. Likely, he is being contrary for some reason known only to himself. When he has thoroughly ogled my intended, he turns to me. "She looks strong. Don't wait for the wedding." As if I need _his_ approval.

As he leaves, my mother embraces me, the scent of rose on her. She clasps my face in her strong hands. "My son. My ice demon. Welcome home, Etienne." The pride in her voice is unmistakable. She has never been disappointed in me, encouraging me to work harder, to push myself to be the very best. She has been my supporter in all my endeavors.

"Mother." I motion to Christiana. "This is Christiana Devereaux."

She turns her gaze, much like my own, to that trembling girl. I can see Christiana's fear coming to surface, her eyes wide and unblinking. I do nothing to alleviate her fears, whatever they may be, leaving her to my mother. Mother stares at her. "I knew Hugh Devereaux long years ago. That he should sire such a lovely girl is...strange to my eyes. Welcome. You may call me 'mother', or 'Patrice' if you must. The ladies with me are Adele and Lydia. Adele is Etienne's twin and Lydia is the youngest."

Christiana murmurs a greeting and my mother cuts short her own greeting. I despise the mood that sometimes comes upon her where I stand for nearly an hour in the courtyard being greeted by every manor servant and peasant that mother decides should be presented, and am glad she has not seen fit to do thus this day. She takes charge of Christiana, Adele trailing behind them and I leave my staff to their duties. Lydia follows me for a bit, spouting off as that willful girl is wont to do, but grows bored when I will not rise to her bait.

I am brought up to date on the happenings of my lands and pause to think on my family. Adele, I am told, is ready to return to her beloved convent, and I am willing to let her go if she chooses to do so. The nuns treat her condition well and their letters tell me Adele is a great help to them. I can only wonder what sort of help a grown woman with the mind of a six year old child truly is, but they do love her as she loves them, so back Adele will go.

As for Lydia, I believe mother has disciplined her for something. She is chomping for a fight and accuses me of being humorless, claiming that should I smile, my face will crack. Dearest Lydia is lucky I do not marry her to a man grandfather's age. I do not know where her assertion is coming from, but I'm certain mother will inform me.

I go into my chambers and sit on the window ledge peering out at my lands. There are so many things I have ignored in past months, things that must now be settled. I must find a husband for Lydia and get her from my house. Who do I know that will tolerate her whims? I shake my head and dismiss such ponderings. There will be time enough after today.


	7. Ponderings

Title: Ponderings

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Kate thinks. Then Will does.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: Point of view fascinates me, what can I say? Thank you, Jillybean, for voicing my own doubts as to the me/my word choice. All fixed now!

~~~~~~~~~~

I admit, I do find Will attractive in an 'is that not truly beautiful' way. He is big and blonde and fun to be around. He is also too noble for the likes o' me. I am just a peasant girl content in her trade and her place. No rising to the stars and changing them about for me. I prefer a simpler man, one uncomplicated in his passions, as my late husband was -- God rest 'im. Someone content with where he is in life. 'Tis hard to find someone like that.

What I mean as 'noble' is that Will, although starting life as a peasant, was never actually a peasant. Not in his heart or soul. Prince Edward might as well have been telling the truth about Will's lineage. Most o' them nobles pretend they are noble, with their fancy clothes and such, but Will has got them all beat in the nobility area. He is their ideal of a knight, chivalry oozing from every pore.

As for Jocelyn, she is not the bitch I thought she was. I have been known to be somewhat catty in my remarks about her. I mean, actually saying that her breasts were not that impressive is hardly complimentary. I have said more than that and my tongue is a shame to me now that I know her somewhat. Truth be told, she's not the arrogant, selfish noble she appears to be. I had predicted that she would lose interest in Will the second her comfort was compromised. I was wrong. She is full of surprises and now Geoff has gone away to his home with some of my earnings. That will learn me to wager with him while he's playing innocent.

Jocelyn has taken to our way of life in degrees instead of plunging, setting aside her noble ways one by one and embracing simplicity. Her clothes are not as sensational and she wears her hair in a plainer style as before. Although that could have much to do with Christiana being gone. I cannot style hair. I am doing well to get my own into a clasp in mornings.

She fought for Christiana. That alone won her much in me eyes. Oh, I knew Christiana's true station in life. Indeed, her dress gave her away. No middle class peasant working as maid could wear those fabrics and, after paying the fine for doing so, have enough wage to live on or send to family. It never occurred to Roland to question the fabrics, though he of all should have known better.

When the first letter on marriage came, Jocelyn did all she could to stop it, going so far as to suggest that her yearly monetary allowance be used to purchase Christiana from Hugh and free her of familial obligation. I had never heard of such a thing, but Jocelyn assured us all it did happen from time to time. Christiana refused. She explained the duty of a daughter, which all women know. Jocelyn fought until the minute Adhemar was leading Christiana from the circle of our tents. She watched Adhemar help Christiana onto one horse and, once that occurred, Jocelyn collapsed. If Will had not been holding her, she would have slumped onto the forest floor. It was as though she had been physically struck, and I have never before seen such a look of utter despair on Jocelyn's face. One might think someone had died.

As for Christiana, she refused to burden us with her own fears, choosing instead to calm Jocelyn and speak with optimism on her own future. Whatever befalls her at Adhemar's hands....Christiana is a survivor. Like my first opinion of Jocelyn, I had thought Christiana to be silly and useless, even vapid. If I keep being so wrong about people, I am going to start doubting my ability to tell friend from foe.

I find myself to be Jocelyn's sole confidante, a position that is somewhat absurd to me. This fancy noblewoman wants to be bosom friends with me, Kate the farris. Imagine that! My friends at home would not believe me. They would call me daft for uttering such a ridiculous thing.

She followed me to the stream a couple days after Christiana left and sat down on a rock. I paid her no matter, getting my bathing done before Wat could come down and leer at me as he has taken to doing of late. That man is a whole other kettle of fish to think on. My feelings for him are definitely mixed. It bothers me and yet it does not to have him watch me as though I am a delicate pastry he plans to devour at some later date. The last time he caught me in the altogether while bathing, his eyes grew wide as he glanced me up and down and he exclaimed, "Sweet!" before taking a bite of an apple. I have not decided if he was referring to the apple or to me. It could be either knowing him. Or both. 

As I dried, Jocelyn roused herself enough to speak.

"We've not talked much, you and I. I should like to remedy that."

I shrugged. Mmm-hmm. Sure. Whatever you say. My comb did not want to go through the wet tangles in my hair and I grimaced as I combed.

"Would you speak with me Kate? I would so like a friend in you. Us women need to stick together among so much rampant maleness." She was trying to be sunny and cheerful, but I saw that her hopeful smile was a poor one, sadness coating her as that perfume she wears. Her expression was so pitiful that I gave in without a thought. What would it hurt to listen to her ramble on day in and day out? It wasn't like she would expect a reply.

Was I ever wrong. The first time Jocelyn asked me political opinion, I had to admit I did not know what she was talking about. I am a simple peasant girl who cares not one whit for the intricate details of some political intrigue. As long as I can make my living, I do not care. She explained both sides of the issue to me and again asked my opinion. Thus, this strange friendship began. She can be silly and much a girl in her thinking, but she is not stupid.

The small of my back begins to ache from my work and I groan as I find a stopping point. I am pouring myself a cup of mead when Jocelyn steps into my work tent, her face averted and hair long and loose. The bright yellow of her gown is like the rays of the sun in the dark shadows of my tent. I have come to know that she tends to wear brighter colors when she is uncertain of herself and is pretending a confidence she does not have. I give her the mead I'd poured and find another cup for myself, then wait for her to speak.

"No letter today either." She says, voice thick and husky, and when she looks at me, I see why. Jocelyn has been crying. Still _is_ crying, her nose red and eyes all puffed. She does not cry prettily, not when she is honestly upset and hurting. Her pretty crying, those light tears, are reserved for times when her emotions are not raging out of control. I realize her hair is down to hide her face and obscure her tear streaked countenance from view.

"One will come" I say in encouragement. Her hungry wait for some sign of Christiana's welfare has infected us all I believe. Even I am anxious for word on a girl I knew only a short while. "Give it time. She has not been gone long."

"I've sent two letters already and no reply." She is not comforted, her hands clasping the cup in a tight grip. "What if he has hurt her? What if he has got her trussed up, all beaten and...and _hurt_? She cannot write then. She cannot write if she cannot hold a pen or lift her head to look at the paper."

I sit beside her, sipping at my drink. "What makes you think he has hurt her?"

The look she gives me is one filled with pain. "Where you not paying attention over the past months Kate? Did your eyes not witness the same things mine did? Adhemar is the vilest of men. He is capable of anything. He would not hesitate to harm her any way he can. Many a man will beat his wife for not obeying his every whim. He will take her and do what he wishes, with every disregard to her being a gentle woman."

"Christiana knows how to serve. She served you for many years and was happy. She will be a credit to him and his household." I try and remain a neutral voice, a calming influence.

"I am not a cruel mistress, Kate. She was more friend than maid, though I had to call her maid publicly. Adhemar _is_ cruel. His men all attest to that. He is a brute. If she is not the wife he wants, he will hurt her, plain and simple. He is the sort of man who thrives on cruelty. Look at what he did to Will. He beat him when Will was helpless in chains. Is that a man who would not enjoy giving pain? I heard him, with my own ears, call mercy a weakness, Kate."

"What does he want from Christiana then?" I agree with her assessment of the man, yet with my past judgment of both Jocelyn and Christiana biting me in my butt, I do not say I agree.

"He wants a woman who is a silent little obedient doll he can show off on his arm. A woman with no temper, no brain. He wants a bland docility that no woman I know of could match, a background for the magnificence he thinks himself to be. He has no thought for another, no feeling in him save hate and envy. He will stifle the gentle woman Christiana is until she conforms to his standard of wife and if she does not conform, he will force her to, using his love for misery to aid him."

Adhemar's reputation as both soldier and man precedes him wherever he goes. He cannot run from it, even if he would try. He is a womanizer and I know it to be somewhat of a truth. Maybe his exploits among both noble and peasant women alike have been greatly exaggerated. Or maybe not. I do not know. The blacksmiths are not immune to chuckling over Adhemar's prowess with women, so I have heard snatches of conversation here and there. It would not surprise me to find that while Adhemar was eyeing Jocelyn, his glance was also straying to Christiana, half formed plans of making her his mistress bouncing about his brain. I wonder if he was initially shocked to find her noble and quickly dismiss the thought. Not much would ever shock him I think.

"I fear for her safety with him, Kate. I could not bear to find he has abused her. My heart would shatter into pieces, for I let her leave us."

"Then give her time to settle in. I know you cannot help to worry. But give her time." 

We sit in silence for awhile, then she finishes the mead and leaves me to me work. I think Jocelyn is underestimating Christiana and letting her feelings get in the way of seeing the woman for who she really is. The woman I had brief acquaintance with was a survivor, someone who takes what life hands out and makes it her own. She accepted that her role in life was to be Adhemar's wife and went willingly to him. She did not complain or rail about it, but simply went, keeping it her business and no others. That is not, in my eyes, the mark of a woman who will ultimately be ruled by her husband, but rather a woman who will make her marriage work on both her terms and her husbands.

God made us opposites, men and women, and Christiana and Adhemar are most certainly opposites. I pray this joining works and that we shall hear word soon. 

~~~~~~~~~~

As the days go by, Jocelyn's worry for Christiana's welfare begins to jump beneath my skin as well as hers. Out of all of us, I know the sorts of turns Adhemar's vindictive nature can take him to. I bear the physical scars of his ire and would be saddened to see marks of his leaving on Christiana's skin. I feel I should have been able to do something that day he came for her.

He just rode up with a garrison of men and demanded her. No greeting, nothing. His gaze remained trained above all our heads and he would not look at us directly for more than a few seconds. He had thought it all out and presented me a document I had Geoff read aloud. The document was the final terms he had settled with Christiana's father. There was nothing I could do really, but the feeling remains. My immediate concern became holding Jocelyn so she would not try and tackle the man to scratch his eyes out. She became quite the hellcat, screeching and fighting to be at him.

Jocelyn tries to hide the extent of her worry from me. I cannot mistake her feelings though when she mopes about and sighs as though the world is in tatters about her. She watches Wat, Roland and I tease one another unmercifully, her face set in a wistful expression. She does not have the friendships I do to carry her along. I hope her efforts to befriend Kate work. I think they are. Kate gives her such amused looks, as if she cannot reason Jocelyn out. I see them together sometimes, two dark heads bent together as they speak. Once, I even heard Kate laugh, a great big belly laugh, some loud lusty sound not in proportion to her slender frame.

I have hopes for us all. It is not often one such as I can mix the stars about and not remain in stocks until a painful death by starvation takes one home. I owe Prince Edward a debt I know not how to repay. In a way, I suppose I owe Adhemar as well. Without his push into the light, I do not know if I ever would have finished my journey into the man I am now. 

A sobering thought. As Ulrich, I could not beat Adhemar. Victory over him was frustratingly out of my reach. Yet once I returned to my true self, William Thatcher born on Cheapside, strength filled my limbs, the strength of body and of character. I could not deny who I was. I had to be myself. Perhaps I had to _choose_ to be myself for fate to turn smiling upon me. Perhaps a man has to be what he is and not what he thinks he should be.

And I must admit, I am interested in seeing the man Adhemar has been shaped into by all this. He did not leave our dance without some change, however slight inside him. I have a feeling there is much more to come from him.


	8. Correspondence

Title: Correspondence

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: A letter from Christiana, and both Jocelyn's thoughts on it and a reply.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Jocelyn,

The days pass and I miss all of you so much. Please forgive me for not writing sooner, but I had to get myself settled and my thoughts organized before putting pen to parchment. There is so much to tell and I am afraid I cannot wrap my mind around the whole of my circumstances of yet. I had not meant to worry you unduly. I should have realized you would fear for my safety.

I long for a friend here in Etienne Adhemar's household. His mother is pleasant enough, a woman very proud of her only remaining living son. She dotes upon him and -- you will be surprised at this -- is not the cowed creature I had expected. Nay, when she disagrees with a decision of his, the stone walls of this keep fairly shake from their heated exchanges. Patrice is no meek creature to be ruled by a man. 

His sister Lydia is much the same and, while I have seen them argue over some matter in low voices, he does not raise a hand to her as I have expected. Etienne does not beat women. Strange that out of all of his sins, that issue is not included. However, I do not think it wise to become very attached to Lydia, as he makes plans for her to marry and leave this house. She is of age now and a lovely girl to behold when her lips are not set in a sulky frown. There is a definite family resemblance between them, her hair as black, thick and curled as Etienne's, her figure tall and solid. I have not had a chance to talk alone with her yet. She keeps to herself and is hardly clamoring to become friends. I am getting the feeling she dislikes me intensely for some reason, though I cannot figure out why.

Etienne's twin, Adele, is at a convent. I met her briefly upon arriving. The woman is not in her right mind. Etienne's mother tells me there was an accident when Adele and Etienne were younger and Adele's mind never caught up to her body in maturity. That is all that has been said on the matter of Adele. I suppose I shall learn more at a later time.

I have seen his grandfather, Gilles, a scant few times. The man closets himself in his chambers and only seems to come out if he can find some way to irritate Etienne or give a counsel that is not needed. For example, on our arrival, he leaned heavily on a staff, dragging his leg. I assumed he'd been injured, yet saw him later that day walking without the staff and no hint of a limp. Patrice mentioned then that the old man was teasing Etienne for his loss at tournament by reproducing the limp Etienne was lucky not to carry for life. Teasing! I sigh as I sit here and write. What a strange family this is. 

The Adhemar from tournament is much on my mind. I find myself thinking of him and how he attempted to woo you. Then, I contrast it with his attentions to me. With you, he was fairly courteous and even playful in your conversations, jealous of a man he knew to be actively seeking your favor. He truly was pleasant to you. To me, his politeness is strained, as though it pains him considerably to be so, his idea of my character most cruel. He thinks me wanton, insisting I tell him when my monthly is done so that any child I conceive he will know is his, yet he bought me to be his wife. He is jealous of a man miles away that I will likely never see again, asking at odd hours what his name was. Where is the glib charm I remember hearing? Where is the gentleman beneath the soldier, for I see little sign of that fellow I know to be present.

I hear no gentle phrases proclaiming me to be the 'most beautiful woman in Christendom.' Oh no. What comes to his lips upon seeing me is, 'when your monthly is through, I will have you.' Do I somehow inspire this coarseness within him? If not, then what _does_ inspire him to be thus? What shall I do?

I have begun, dear friend, to long to hear compliments from his lips, the sort of poetry that Sir Will gave to you. Anything kind and gentle would be most welcome, yet he seems to think his crude conversation -- when he speaks to me at all -- is appropriate. As I wrote above, he believes me wanton, which I am most certainly not. Now, I know I must accept the inevitable intimacy we will share. I must learn to anticipate it, but his manner brings much fear to my mind. You once spoke of your times with Sir Will as beautiful. I would have such beauty for myself and am afraid that finding it with Etienne will be an impossible feat while he treats me as a prostitute. Never the less, I shall try.

Your loving friend,

Christiana

~~~~~~~~~~

This first letter I have received from Christiana fills me with a strange mix of anger and sorrow. I find that while I am not surprised at Adhemar's vile coarseness, I _am_ surprised that he has kept himself from her. I did not believe he held such restraint anywhere within him. It was assumed, and not just by myself, that Christiana ceased to be a maiden pure in the night after that conscienceless Count took her from us. That he did not gives me pause.

It is unfathomable how he could think Christiana a wanton girl. I have always been more sensational than she, and bolder. Whatever did he think of _my_ character then, if he can look at her and think such things? Just because she arranged my meetings with Will for me, did not make her free with herself. Yes, she did go with Roland, but admitted to me that she could not allow those embraces to reach fruition. I recall her words to me once on that matter.

I had changed for bed, lost in the wonders Will had introduced my willing self to, my mind in the clouds, as it was every time for hours after we were together. Giving myself to him had been the only true expression of my love for him that I could show. Considering the status placed in society upon an untouched state for women before marriage, my choice was as drastic as his choice to lose, then win as I had asked. Proof to him of my love. I was his prize and though the consequences of my father's wrath should he find out were considerable, I went to Will with all the love I possessed.

Christiana sat on my bedside, giving a sigh that pulled me from my blissful remembrances. "Jocelyn...." she began.

I stopped my wanderings about the chamber. "Hmm?"

"How were you able to go through with it?" Her eyes were questioning, puzzled, an earnest seeking.

I crossed to her, sitting beside her. "Why?" She had left the street with Roland the previous evening I recalled. The two of them had run away in a flurry of laughter and eager smiles.

"I could not." She flushed. "I really did see Roland's embroidery, you know. It's beautiful work, intricate and colorful. He has a gift there. And when we had finished looking at the linens, he kissed me. I liked it, I truly did. He was so sweet and gentle, but there was nothing but a fuzzy warm feeling. There was none of the sweeping, overwhelming passion you have described to me. I had thought there would be some fire. I mean, our glances are so..._bold_. I had imagined that passion would take a hold of me and...." She gave another long sigh. "But there was none. Only a slight warmth. It was nice. That is all. I told him I was not ready to take such a step and he escorted me back here. He told me he understood and when I was ready, to not hesitate to crook my finger his direction."

And Adhemar thinks her wanton? _Ohhh_!

It is good that Christiana did not tell us early of her father's decision. I would have urged her to be a disobedient daughter; to run away from here. I would have done anything to stop Adhemar from taking her away from us. However, even if she _had_ followed such a suggestion, he would have pursued her. He would have considered her his possession as soon as that first tentative offer for her was accepted.

I am angry with Adhemar. He takes her to him out of revenge, I am sure. How dare he turn his spiteful eye towards my dear friend!

He dares though, and there is nothing I can do. There was nothing I _could_ do once he was outside my tent that day, demanding that she be brought to him, that arrogant voice ringing out in the clearing. There is nothing to do but accept that she is Adhemar's now. My poor, dear friend. I cannot give her the advice I long to give and it is too late for what I would have said. Coming between a man and his intended wife is something I will not do, no matter how much I wish to. I will not meddle. Therefore, there is only one thing I can tell her to do.

My reply to send is thus:

'Dear Christiana,

What can I write to give you hope? My experience has colored my view of the man. I freely admit thus and ask that you take it into account when requesting my counsel. My counsel on Adhemar on all matters is too have patience. As you are a woman of great patience, I am certain you will be able to retain your temper with him far longer than I would have were I in your place.

I feel him to be detestable, a conscienceless man only concerned with his own desires. But I do not know much more of him as a man save that which I learned through Will's experiences and mine with him. Do not look to me in that regard for insight. Look to his men and his servants, his family and the peasants that work his lands. Please do not ask me to counsel when I do not qualify to do so. You would be better off going to his mother, though you did write that she dotes upon him, so perhaps that is not a good idea.

I do hate to be so useless for you on the matter. Believe me, you have my express sympathies for having to marry the beast. Will however, is not so reticent to give advice. The gist of his words is that you should play no silly games and speak only truth. Wat agrees and adds that you should make certain to serve Adhemar's favorite foods at all times. Personally, I do not see Wat's suggestion taming the man in the slightest, but you could try it. I shall write no more on the matter, no advice, although I will remain a confidant when you wish to unburden yourself. Please understand that I do not wish to come between you and he and that is what is behind my decision. I would not have my counsel hurting your marriage before it has even begun. I wish you to have some chance at happiness.

As for myself and Will, marriage quite agrees with me. I adore being a wife and hope soon to be a mother also. We do try often! My father has been generous with us. A month from this date will see us in our own home. You remember that residence intended for my youngest brother? Well, with him dead from fever and no other sons to inherit, father has given it to Will and made a provision in his will that it remain Will's upon his death. I think he is being so generous just to impress Prince Edward. You know how father is in that regard. As long as Will has Prince Edward's ear on matters, father shall do all he can for us.

The house is a small manor, barely even large enough to be called such, and is in rather poor upkeep. Roland, Wat and Kate go with us and I am firm in my resolve that we shall all be happy and content there. Will has told me that father says the soil is decent and the people will be glad for a good man to be over them. The area has been well protected by my father's soldiers, yet not truly cared for like our active houses.

Will would not depend on my father though. He says the generosity is all well and good, but he wishes to make our own fortune. I must tell you that Will plans to enter Tournament when it begins again. As well as he does, I do not foresee a huge problem with his plan. 

We all miss you sorely.

Much love,

Jocelyn and company'


	9. A Desperate Action

Title: A Desperate Action

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Christiana must give news of a personal nature to Adhemar.

Rating: PG-13 (sexual themes)

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

Notes: 'Plighting the troth' was a historical happening up through the 16th century. A couple did not necessarily have to go to a priest to marry. They simply had to state their intent before witnesses. As time passed, this practice was discontinued and the church ceremony as we know it today became the norm. Again, resources are listed on my website.

~~~~~~~~~~

The days have passed quickly and I have settled myself here. Patrice and Lydia have begun to give me the duties they performed as women of the household and I am liking this role I have been thrust into. There is such freedom in being the one to decide household matters instead of being the one to carry them out. I am not exceptionally good at any of the duties, but I am adequate, as Patrice tells me. She insists I shall grow into my role as mistress of the manor and who am I to argue with Etienne's mother? He does enough arguing with her on his own. 

I find I am changing as time passes in this household. I am uncertain as to whether these changes are for the better. Traits I did not know I held within me are surfacing these days. For example: I am not, by nature, a devious woman in my own affairs. Jocelyn's request for aid in arranging a tryst with Will is truly the sum of all my devious machinations. However, I find that desperation is a rather large motivator, and I am, as of this morning, most desperate.

Etienne again bid me to inform him when my 'women's trouble', as he put it, was over and it is over. I put it off telling him as long as I could, but finally took myself out to the training field, venturing where the women of the household do not usually go.

He was with some of his men, not practicing at the joust or bow and arrow, but at the sword. I stood there watching and I can freely admit that I did admire the powerful figure he was. Those swords are heavy and it is no wonder to me that Etienne is fit. He was minus his shirt, as were most of his companions on the field, yet my eyes slid past all others to land upon him. Curiosity pricked at me; after all, he is to be my husband. I will see him in the altogether soon. By my own standards, my glance was far too long and bold upon that bare male flesh, noting those wide shoulders and strong back, and when he turned, his nicely muscled chest and flat belly. His chest was hairy, but not overly so.

My heart did quicken, my hands itching to slide along that exposed flesh slick with the sweat of his labors, to touch his chest and explore what my eyes saw. I wondered what his skin would feel like if I pressed my lips to it. I already knew the flesh to be firm.

What of this has caused my desperation? I come to that, for nothing had prodded me to that point yet. He was totally intent upon beating his opponent and once he had, his attention turned unwavering upon myself. Such complete attention is flattering in extreme, but one must understand something of the man.

He drives his men hard and himself harder, accepting no weakness. He is merciless and demanding and I can see why the Free Companies have been useful to the Crown. If he ever lost a battle, it would be because his entire company, himself included, was dead. He's retreated on orders before, yet never lost a full battle that I am aware of. 

That understanding must now be applied to his life outside of the military actions. _This is the man._ Etienne. Adhemar. Count. Soldier. _He_ is merciless and demanding. _He_ accepts no weakness. And _he_ does not back down once he sets forth a plan of action, whether it is hawking or stalking his promised wife.

"Christiana."

He was in a rare good mood, hungry gaze glinting in good humor, voice a purring caress. I have been visually devoured and my heart still does race in remembrance. I took a step back as he approached with the sauntering swagger of a man most confident of himself. I was wary of him, and rightly so, as my news put him to the most amorous of bents.

"We have not had the pleasure of a Lady on our field often. Welcome."

The men, as always in my presence, bow respectfully and hie themselves mostly out of earshot, leaving the dark knight and myself some privacy to speak. I tilted my head back to look up at him, which I know now does please him. His idea of a proper woman is the oddest of things. He wants modesty, but a modest turn of the eyes infuriates him. He says he wants silence, then asks that I speak. He demands obedience, then berates me for it. The contradictions are most confusing and complicated and I believe he wishes a woman like his sister Lydia and his mother, despite his assertions otherwise. I mean, witness his courting of Jocelyn. She was not his ideal of proper woman no matter what picture of her he may have formed in his mind.

"I assume by your presence here that you have something of importance you wished to speak with me on?"

He was so close that I could feel the heat from his body washing over me. "Yes." I forced myself to keep meeting his gaze. "You wished to know when my time ended --" 

"It is done?" He cut me off, sword thrown to the ground, the point thwacking into the trampled, packed soil. One brow raised, and with his thick hair in disarray, tumbling about his face, and stubble darkening his jaw, he was much the rakish figure. I was caught to him, pressed firm along his tautly muscled body. "In truth?"

His hands seemed to be eight in number instead of two, traveling freely where, in my mind, they had no license to be as yet. "It is --"

He kissed me. He coaxed, he tasted and teased. He sipped of me in such a way as to incite a longing deep within me, a longing as I've never felt, not even in those gentle moments in Roland's embrace. This kiss was in stark contrast to the kiss he gave me on our journey, rousing and not in the least bit frightening. A surging heat took me, coiled along my limbs in a delicious fashion. No desperation yet. No, I enjoyed the kiss. I enjoyed his ardent embrace as well. There in the morning sun, caught in his arms, I could imagine a scene like those Jocelyn told me. I could imagine a world where Etienne Adhemar was a kind man and he loved me with all of his being. I wrapped my arms about him, ignoring the sweat that dampened my clothes, my hands sliding along the muscles of his back.

I began to enjoy the business of kissing him, my tongue brushing to his, reveling in the thrill of doing so. His arms tightened and I was lifted to him, his mouth slipping from mine, pressing eager kisses down my neck, across my bodice and back up. The stubble on his jaw that he had yet to shave off this day rasped against my skin in a pleasant, exciting way. A moan escaped me.

"Will you be my wife, Christiana, till we part at death's door?" he murmured in low tone.

A tiny frown pulled at my brow. The question was out of place to my mind. I should be hearing endearments, not a question as to my intentions. "Yes, I will be your wife." I whispered back, turning my head so that his lips could reach my neck better. I should have realized his intent, for his next words froze me quick.

"I will be your husband. The troth is spoken then. My wait is done. I will not wait for a priest to bless our marriage. This night you are mine."

Why did his intent bring panic? Is it what I know of him, that knowledge that he is merciless and demanding? Is that what frightens? Under that fear I have of him, the desperation and panic, lies a desire for him I have begun to carry. I have willed myself to feel something for him for the sake of the future. I have willed myself to want him. I do not wish to be thought of as another of his women. I wish to be _his wife_. Do I make sense? Yes. That is it. If he takes me this night with only this unblessed vow between us, I will be just another woman he has bedded. But if I can stay him until we go before a priest, then, and only then, will he possibly see me apart from all the others. I refuse to be anything less than a church blessed _wife_, since a wife was what he bought me to be.

I twisted, pulled away, a feat in itself, for his grip on my dress and person was hard. There was a horrible tearing sound, my dress ripping, the seam in his grasp giving way. "No!"

He caught my arms, fingers digging in and hurting. I will have bruises later from that grip. "Why not?"

"We are not wed."

"Do not play the pure maiden. We have stated our intent to be husband and wife to one another. My men are all witnesses. The blessing of a priest is inconsequential." He gave a harsh laugh, that good humor bleeding from his eyes, something frigid replacing it. "Do you deny me what you gave that peasant?"

My lips trembled at that. He will not believe I am pure. As I have before, I said again and again he gave caustic retort. I fled, another seam ripped as consequence and now, after calming myself, approach the solar where his mother sits sewing. If any can stay him, it is she. I am the most devious of women in that. This is where my newly found deviousness comes to play. Etienne at times does value Patrice's counsel. And when he does not listen to her, she keeps at him until he acknowledges she has an opinion separate from his. If he does not listen, at least I can be assured that she will hound him all the rest of the day about it, thus giving me a rest.

She is bent over a tapestry, her work slow, and she glances at me, curiosity in her eyes as she takes in my torn gown and general state of dishabille. I have not paused to change. "Yes Christiana?" 

She expects blunt speech from all and gives as much in return. I say plain what I have come to say. "Do you feel it proper for a man to bed his intended before the priest gives his blessing?"

Patrice sits back, anchoring her needle in the fabric on the heavy standing frame. "My son is rather pig headed. It was a trait of his father." Her glance goes to the large tear at my hip. "Is that from him?"

"Yes."

"I take it you do not wish to simply pledge and be done with the matter?"

"No."

"Why not? He has stated he will be husband to you, yes? Even if he changed his mind, he would not back out of a promise. There is that spit of land he gave that he despises. He would not risk possibly having to take that back."

I endeavor to explain my revelation to her, my hands twisting together. "If he were to...take me tonight before the priest can bless us, he will never think of me as his wife."

A laugh sounds forth from her and she stands. "That could be a good thing. Have you considered that? Mistresses are often better treated than a wife. For him to consider you as his mistress could be better than being thought of as his wife."

I shake my head. "He wanted me as wife. He will have me. If he does not like the restriction of waiting, he has none but himself to blame for insisting on having me as wife. He could have stolen me from my place with Lady Jocelyn and kept me for a few weeks if all he wanted was my body. He did not. He went to all the trouble of contacting my father and offering for me. Etienne can just wait one day and wed me properly on the morrow."

Speaking plain to his mother on the matter feels odd to me, but I am not surprised when she laughs harder. "Oh, you are perfect for him!" That I do not see. "Well. Etienne may be Count, but he is still my son and not so big I cannot take a switch to him if need be." Her eyes twinkle with anticipation. I think she likes the arguments they share. Verbal warfare seems to be how this family bonds together. I wish hugs and kind words were the norm instead, for I do not excel at verbal warfare. I would rather give an embrace and gentle encouraging words than scream and rail and storm away to sulk. "Rest easy. He will not find you this evening."

When she has gone, I sit in the chair she vacated and lean to study the tapestry. So far, Patrice has done greenery and flowers along one section. The work is beautifully done. As I peer closer, I hear a clapping from behind me and turn. Lydia is coming towards me, clapping her hands. We have not talked alone, her and I, though I have been in this house awhile. She avoids me, sometimes even turning and running the other way when she sees me. 

"You are right." She stops a few feet from me, tucks her hair behind her ears. Her voice has the mark of one in this family, strong and not faltering in the least. This young woman, like her mother, is not the sort to speak quietly. "You know how my brother thinks. Impressive."

"A matter of watching him. Not so impressive."

"No, it is. Really. You understand him. Not many people ever really do. _Beatrice_ certainly did not." Her voice is sly, her gaze matching the tone she uses. She is telling me this for some reason only she knows.

"Who is Beatrice?" I ask. Trying to lighten the moment, I give a smile and add, "Is she one of Etienne's women I've heard about, kept locked in a chamber somewhere?" 

Lydia gives me a long measuring stare, then shakes her head and begins to walk away. "You mean, who _was_ Beatrice? Not for me to tell. But if you really want to understand my brother fully on women...." She turns and backs out the open door, finishing the sentence as she goes, "find out."

And with that cryptic remark, I am left to wonder who this Beatrice was and what she means to Etienne.


	10. Reaction

Title: Reaction

Author: Kasey 

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar reacts to Christiana's maneuvering. Christiana finds an ally.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the subject of Christiana, my mother has been unceasing in her objections. She has followed me about this entire afternoon speaking her thoughts in such a shrill manner that my head is throbbing. A hushed voice is not a thing my dear mother can ever lay claim to having and now the entire manor knows that Christiana has objected to my decision.

"The blessing of a priest is important to a young woman. It helps her to feel that she has been handed over to her man with the full blessing of God on high."

"You did not have such a formal ceremony with father." I cross my arms and point out. My parents gave their vows before both their families and no priest blessed them at all until well after I was born. Their blessing was an informal side in mass one day, not a long special celebration within the mass.

The look she gives me is one I recognize and I brace myself. Mother has lent her full resources as my mother to Christiana. She will play upon our mother-son relationship to get what she wants. Her flare for the dramatic is soon to emerge. "I hated him for that. Once, like Christiana, I was a young girl with dreams of a blissful wedding day, beginning with the blessing in the morning. But no....I was to be disappointed when the priest had the nerve to up and die the day before. My wedding day dawned bright and clear with a house full of relatives, and _your father_, that could not be kept waiting." She places her hands on her hips and frowns. "I know well that you are not an angel, my son. But do not be such a devil."

"The documents for the land are exchanged, the dowry received. Christiana is mine, _has_ been mine since I fetched her. I could have rightfully bedded her at any time. I do not need the words of a mere _priest _--"

The sound of her slap rings the courtyard, her hand then making the sign of the cross, eyes glancing heavenward. My cheek burns from the force of her hand. "Forgive him, Lord, for not showing respect for your holy worker."

I will not hit my mother, I repeat over and over in my head, although the provocation to do so is now in the extreme. I feel my lips compressing into a thin line, my nerves tightening until the breaking point is near. "Who is Count here, mother?" 

"You are." Finely arched brows raise. "And I am your mother. You say you respect my opinion and my opinion is thus --"

I stop her with upraised hands. "No more of your opinion. I fear the entire region can hear you already."

"You plan to take this pure girl --"

"Pure?" I cut her off with a snort. "She's no virgin. Her field was ploughed long before I looked at her." I grasp her right arm in anticipation of a slap and I am caught by her left hand. Both my cheeks are stinging now, but I will not hit my mother. How father managed her remains a mystery to me to this day. "Madame, that is getting old."

"Then wed her tomorrow."

"We stated our intent. We are wed already."

"Oh for...!" She throws back her head and gives a noise of frustration. "What is one night? Drag her out of her bed at dawn, have Father Persius bless you and have a toss in...in... the _stable_ before morning mass if you must! You can honor this one request of hers, Etienne." She opens her mouth to go on, then turns her head to look at Germaine, who has slowly edged up to us as we argue. "Yes Germaine? You have a contribution to the discussion?"

He shakes his head, giving her a tiny bow, one hand over his heart. "No, my Lady. I would not presume to think my counsel would be needed. I have come to tell my Lord that a Royal messenger has arrived with this," a parchment roll is held up, "for him."

I take the parchment and open it, expecting a letter from Edward with orders for the Free Companies. Perhaps he has changed his mind about disbanding us and wishes us to join him at his latest battle. Wouldn't that be lovely? I could have my way with Christiana this night and none could argue against it.

At the opening sentence however, I realize this is no letter regarding military matters. No, Edward would not write me of Christiana. He would not write of knowing her well. He would not write of a woman at all. The letter is from Princess Joan, the beautiful Countess of Kent and Edward's own wife. My exasperation reaches fever pitch as I read, my nerves screaming as they are stretched beyond all endurance. I am beset by females at every turn, all pleading Christiana's virtue and my wretchedness as a man for not honoring her.

The strangled noise I hear is coming from my own throat. My head whips up, gaze finding Germaine through the red haze that has sprung into my vision. He winces but stands firm. My mother has wisely moved away. I crush the letter in my hand.

"Etienne!" Lydia calls to me and I turn to see her making her way across the courtyard. She stops and looks up, her smile of greeting fading away as she glances between Germaine and myself.

"What?" I bite out through teeth that I find I cannot unclench.

"Um..."

"Spit it out, girl!"

She blanches, skin paling at alarming speed. "I must speak to you about Christiana --"

I take a step to her, hand stretching out to grasp her arm and find Germaine in the way. He does not back down under my glare, though his gaze is respectfully lowered a bit. I grit my teeth harder and move back from my sister. It is a struggle to make myself do so, as it is a struggle not to punch Germaine. He is only doing what I had asked him to do a long time ago and that is to not let anyone, even myself, hurt Lydia or Adelle if he can stop it. I look around him at her. "Do not mention a word of her Lydia, or you will find yourself very sorry you did."

She flees and I do not blame her. I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing. Surely Princess Joan's letter is just a well-timed coincidence? Slowly, the anger that holds me loosens its grip and I re-open my eyes. "Germaine, has Christiana exchanged correspondence with Princess Joan?"

"No, she has not. Her only letters are to Lady Jocelyn."

"Have _any_ of the scheming women of this household exchanged correspondence with Princess Joan?"

"None, my Lord."

I thrust the letter back at him. "Where is my _Lady_ right now?"

"In the solar I believe. Sewing."

I make my way into the house and to the solar. She must know I am coming to her with all the noise the servants make rushing to be out of my way. One clumsy girl drops a tray, the contents spilling across my path. I step over her and the mess without a glance to see which girl it was. Christiana stands as I come through the doorway, setting the cloth she has been working on aside. She clasps her hands and waits.

"I can understand my mother aiding you, and even my sister. Mother has a flair for dramatic and Lydia is just a silly young girl full of unrealistic dreams." I frown. "How in blazes did you enlist the aid of Princess Joan, when Germaine assures me you have not written to her?"

She actually seems puzzled, staring at me as though she has not a clue what I am saying. I wait for her to answer and when she does not, I go on.

"Her letter has the most glowing account of you. She describes you as 'tactful' and 'most virtuous', and actually commends me for my choice to wed you before God and all. _Before God and all_. Now, you could not have jotted off a letter to her and received a reply this quick after this morning, so I am left wondering on your relationship with her. Your acquaintance... is it a fond one?" I cross my arms and think back on the last time I glimpsed Princess Joan and recall Christiana sitting beside her in the galley in London. Could this girl be royally connected? If I forge ahead with my plan this night, will she jot off a letter to Joan about it? Perhaps I should not take the chance of Edward riding in here on his wife's suggestion and looking over my shoulder. I do not wish to be scrutinized by him any further than I have been already.

She opens her mouth. "Well...."

I wait, but she does not go on. Could it be? Could Princess Joan have taken her under her wing during the time after that final joust, when William and Jocelyn were guests of Edward and Joan? I know it could be so. The woman is gracious and much the asset to Edward. She very well could have befriended Christiana as I began negotiations with Hugh Devereaux. Is there a royal friendship there? Is Christiana _embarrassed_ even to admit such? I study her. It does look that way.

She does not seem to know what to say, her eyes wide and mouth opening and closing as she tries to find the words to respond. Her cheeks are flushed and her hands twist together.

Patience is not my strong suit and I shake my head. "Why did you not mention this fact at an earlier date? I would have been a bit more...willing to wait for arrangements to be made." I begin to pace. Just my luck of late. I piss off Edward with Thatcher and now am close to pissing him off again. An angry Prince is not a person I want to have coming here. "Father Persius can wed us before morning mass. Mother will arrange a feast and entertainments for the rest of the day. The witnesses will have to be those already here, but I can send riders to neighbors and let the feast continue for a couple weeks. Will that assuage your outraged femininity? Will you accept those vows then?"

She lowers her face to look at the floor, hair falling forward and partially covering her face. "Yes. I will accept it then."

I nod. "Be ready at dawn, for I will not wait one second past cock's crow. If you are not dressed, I will drag you to our chapel door in your nightgown." With that last vow, I leave the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

A royal connection? That Etienne thinks I am a friend to Princess Joan astonishes me. What was in that letter she sent, and was it indeed from her? When I was with Jocelyn in that house, I was acknowledged by name _only_ by my friends and the other maids. I did not speak to the Princess, but rather to her maid-companion Alison. I cannot claim the connection he thinks I have. What can I say to right his assumption? Do I want to right it?

I must wonder who in this house aids me. I know Patrice has been with him all day, but Lydia? She is obvious in her dislike for me and would not give me two seconds of aid if my life depended upon it. However, whatever she has said to him he has taken it as aid of me. So who, out of all, had the opportunity to know Etienne's mutterings early enough to tell Princess Joan and for her to send a letter? I sit and pick up the shirt I am embroidering for Etienne, my gift to him, a sample of my talent with a needle that I hope will please him. The dark blue color of the cloth will emphasize his eyes and compliment his skin tone. I stick the needle through the cloth and am interrupted by the gentle clearing of a throat.

Germaine stands in the doorway. "My Lady Christiana."

"Yes?"

He comes forward and holds a rolled parchment out to me. "This was sent to you. I will wait for you to write a response if you wish."

Curious, I unroll it. I have just received a letter from Jocelyn and do not expect to have another so soon. It reads,

'_Lady Christiana,_

Greetings and felicitations to a lovely young woman. I remember you from your stay with us and was much impressed by your discreet attitude and manners. It comes to my ears that your husband-to-be is falsely questioning your virtue, a belief that could easily cause strife for your marriage. Alison has told me what she knows of your future husband on this, so I am familiar with the man somewhat. I have written to Lady Jocelyn asking for clarification and her account supports Alison's in this matter. Therefore, in hopes of making peace between you and Etienne Adhemar, I offer you aid in the form of a letter, sent already to him, a congratulations to him for choosing you to take as a wife. I have been so forward as to imply that you and I struck up a friendship. I hope it will help you to some degree.

Men can be contrary creatures at times, but we love them anyway, yes?

__

Phillippa Chaucer bids you greetings from her husband and I ask that you give a fond greeting to Germaine from my Alison.

Sincere prayers for your happiness,

Joan'

I look up with a disbelieving grin. Germaine's eyes are twinkling, his face otherwise blank. "You are a brave man."

"No. Just one who knows when accusations are untrue. You are not the sort of woman to give yourself lightly and if my Lord was thinking clearly, he would have already realized it himself. I am not brave."

"How did you know his plan?" I cannot believe Germaine has intervened. I did not think he could do something so potentially inflammatory to his position here. He could be disciplined severely for his part in helping me.

"You must understand...I am the closest thing to a confidante my Lord has at this manor next to his grandfather. I am in a position to know many things." He glances over his shoulder. "Is there a reply to be sent, my Lady?"

"Only a few lines giving my thanks. I shall write it out in a bit."

"Very good."

He turns to go. "Germaine?" He stops and half turns back to me. "Alison sends you fond greetings." There is a hint of a smile on his lips and he nods before walking from the room. 

I had not expected to find my ally in him. I take the letter to the fireplace and feed it to the flames. It would be best if Etienne did not find this particular letter sitting about somewhere. When it is ashes, I return to my seat and pick up the cloth and needle. Yes, this color cloth will be marvelous against his skin.


	11. A Marriage Begins

Title: A Marriage Begins

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar and Christiana are blessed by the priest.

Rating: PG-13, references made in passing to sexual activities.

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: This chapter has both Adhemar and Christiana's POV throughout and yes, this chapter has been **_greatly_** edited down to this rating. See my website for the chapter in its entirety.

~~~~~~~~~~

Christiana is dressed and waiting when I knock on her door just before the sun slips above the horizon in a riot of purples and reds. She is wearing blue today, some garment of turquoise and a paler version of that color, the bodice of which dips pleasingly low on her breast. I cannot help but notice that she is comely in that color, the vibrant darker blue setting off her brunette coloring, but if she hopes that blue will convince me of her purity though, then she is mistaken. I am well aware that blue is the symbol of purity. Her choice of that gown means nothing to me. Her hair is unbound by even the tiny braids she sometimes wears throughout the thick mass, and it falls just below her hips. I look forward to later, and being wrapped in her glorious hair as I take her.

I lead her now to the chapel door, her hand trembling in mine. There are no representatives of her family present. None of her kin have seen fit to even be with her in the time up until this day, though she has received letters from a couple of her sisters with their regrets. She has been alone all this time. The crowd of my family and the workers of this manor gather around us as we walk to the chapel. They are a river behind us, carrying us forward. We could not stop now if either of us wished to.

Father Persius is waiting on the steps, looking as disapproving of me as he always has, but perhaps not as much today. In fact, he seems a bit gloating. Gloating that I did not carry out my plan of yesterday to have Christiana then? Probably. He has always preached to me on my sin of fornication. Well, that good priest cannot say a thing now can he? I shall have a wife and must have her often to beget heirs. Many, many heirs will require many, many hours of sexual recreation with my wife. Even that dried up old priest can see that.

It is time to list the dower, the _jointure_. Her dowry was given early to me and I must speak my part in this exchange of lands now. That bit of land I gave her father was not the dower, just a way to make him agreeable to giving her to me. I have chosen other lands for Christiana and should I die before her, she will be taken care of. I grasp both Christiana's hands in mine and turn her so we are facing each other. She looks at me, uncertainty in those dark orbs. I list the lands I have set aside for her and her eyes widen. I suspect she did not think the dower would be much at all. Does she really think I would leave my wife destitute upon my death? I take a pouch from my belt and have her cup her hands, then pour out the contents in her palms. She gasps at the gold coins and pours them back into the pouch. The little purse is closed, the strings looped over her wrist as a bracelet. I present a ring to her and slide it on her finger.

My vows, more elaborate than the words I spoke yesterday, are spoken in a rush. I want this over with, the sooner the better. _Her_ vows though....Hers are spoken in a soft voice, slow and definite. She means her vows, every word, that is the impression her tone gives me. Well good. It is good for a woman to mean her vows, yes? She will obey me and bear me children and all those sorts of things.

I glance down at her. She looks up at me, and Father Persius says that blessing she was so determined to have. I could not tell what the man said. Oh, he spoke clear enough I suppose, but my attention was on Christiana. As the blessing ended, a gleam took root and blossomed in her eyes, a spark that was captivating. I could not look away.

She is my wife. _Wife_. And she is mine alone. Not waiting for Father Persius to say I may, I take Christiana's face in my hands and kiss her. She clings to me and the world shrinks to the two of us. I am busy mentally considering all the deliciously naughty things I wish to do with her right after mass, when I recall that mass still has to actually be said. Father Persius clears his throat hard and lapses into a fit of coughing. Reluctantly, I release Christiana. The sooner he gets on with mass, the sooner I can take care of this want I have for Christiana. I push Father Persius down the chapel aisle, propelling him down to his place before the altar. 

Mass takes far too long and when freedom for the day is near, Christiana and I go to the aisle. Father Persius gives me the kiss of peace, which I then pass on to Christiana. The ceremony is over. I do not see what was so special about this ceremony, but it is done and the Church considers us married. I study her. She is watching those leaving with an eager expression, teeth biting her lower lip, her eyes dancing with her excitement. It is obvious that she wants to be out there, to be seen as the bride. I would be a beast indeed to force her away from celebrating our marriage with the rest of the manor. It would be a low thing to drag her to our chamber now.

A strange pang of conscience pricks in my chest and I force my own needs down with much difficulty. I cannot find it in me to drag her off for some sport, though I would dearly love to dally with her and consummate these vows straight away. It pains me greatly to admit that my mother is right. Every girl deserves pleasant memories on her wedding day, no matter what her character. Every girl deserves to be shown off to the guests even if her groom is aching for her. Perhaps if I wait, then this night will be better for it. She will be happy and a happy woman, I have found, is willing to do just about anything. 

So I will wait even longer. She knows it is this day and acknowledged that yesterday by her agreement. Let her anticipation build. Let her wonder when I will get to the business of taking her. 

My cooks have outdone themselves. There is enough food to feed the entire Free Companies backwards and forwards for three days solid. For that matter, my _mother_ has outdone herself. With only a few hours, she has managed to scrounge together jugglers and other performers and organize a feast. The rest of the day is spent walking about the manor grounds and eating. Some of my men have put together contests of archery and swordplay, and I know that by weeks end, as the guests come pouring in to meet my wife, they will have gotten a full tournament going for entertainment.

We go in to eat the evening meal and I am glad to see the end of this day nearing. We sit. I take Christiana's slender fingered hand in mine and press a brief kiss upon her knuckles near the ring I placed upon her finger this morning. Her glance holds all of her uncertainty. She is off-guard by my gentle manner this day and I intend her to remain as such. I bend my head to her.

"Does the entertainment please you?" I ask in her ear, motioning to the juggler making his way along the banquet tables. The position allows me to glance down and ogle the half exposed curves of her breasts without being too obvious about it. I do ogle and am already well-warmed for later. 

"Yes." Her fingers tense in my grasp and I hold them with a firmer touch so she is unable to pull them away.

"Good." My free hand touches her jaw, turning her face to mine. To the hall, that touch, and our close proximity, will look quite loving and tender. Her gaze raises to mine and I stare into those dark depths. "Against my better judgment, I have made a sacrifice for you. Best enjoy it, for I will not make this sacrifice again." I sit back and make a gesture to Germaine.

The hall doors open. My mother told me that Christiana adores music and dancing, so what have I done? I have decided to grit my teeth and let her have that racket on this day. Should she wish to dance, my grandfather will be happy to show off his sprightly steps. He always is. I am alone in my affliction of the ears in this family. There are times when I hate being left out because of it. It is not pleasant to watch every single person about you enjoy something that makes your own head ache.

The musicians bring their instruments close and begin making noise. This would be what is called 'tuning' I suppose, for they stop and start and stop and start in short bursts. Their leader steps forth and gives a respectful bow, as well he might, for I have been known to toss musicians from my hall with such force that their instruments are smashed. "My Lord. My Lady. What would you wish to hear from my humble troupe?"

Christiana sips her wine, thinking and carefully considering her choice I am sure. She glances at me and I nod, although I expect the distaste is plain on my face. My head is already beginning to throb in expectation. She sits forward, setting her cup down. "Well, I think...I do not wish for songs just yet. I wish to be entertained with tales. Tales and poetry. Songs and dancing can come after my husband and I retire for the evening."

A gasp works through the hall, echoing, my own catch of breath lost among the uproar. I see my mother nodding, approval on her face. What hand has she in this? I clear my throat. "As my wife wishes." In moments, we are regaled by stories of knights and battles and fair maidens and I again lean down to Christiana. "You could have had music."

She turns her face to mine, mouth to my ear so her words are private. "You do not like music. I will hear music at mass."

"I was giving you a bridal gift."

"At your own expense. I do not want it if it hurts you to give it."

"You surprise me. I had expected you to enjoy the gift."

She draws back a space. "I will miss music and dancing, Etienne, but I can get used to not having it. The joy of it for me is in the sharing and if I cannot share my love of music with you, then best there be little music in this hall." Her hand, still in mine, has gone icy cold. She means her words, that is plain, but also plain is her sadness for the loss. How many women that I know would give such a care for their husband? How many would take that gift I offered and play it out without a thought to my very real pain? This is not typical behavior for a woman and I frown. She is being thoughtful of _me_ and I did not expect that. It is confusing that she is not reacting as I expected her to. 

Am I hasty in saying this sacrifice shall not be made again? Perhaps I _could_ unbend enough on this to allow a musician to play for her while I am out training in the field in the mornings. Then, I will not have my ears assailed and she shall remain content. I would not have her depressed and I think she could end up such without music. I would have her mastered yes, but not in a state of depression. I make a mental note to consider the subject again later.

The night drags on and I am impatient for later. She enjoys the hours, smiling and laughing at the plays that are presented to us. One of the performers regales us with overblown tales of the victories the Free Companies have been a part of and I find myself beginning to relax as well as our wedding feast comes to a closure. Nothing will stop me from having her now.

~~~~~~~~~~

I am nervous. Dear God, am I nervous! My hands shake and are damp with perspiration as I spend the hours at my husbands' side. I feel I am balancing on the tip of a double edged sword, where if I fall to either side, I shall be sliced up. 

What sort of test was the musicians? Why would he do such a thing? Why dangle them before me, when I know I cannot indulge my passion for music within his hearing? I am grateful now for Patrice's words on Etienne's affliction. I think I have passed his test. His good humor of yesterday on the training field has returned and he has been rather mellow and attentive all day long. Quite a change from his previous behavior, but one I am more than ready to have. My ears would gladly listen to flowing melodies and clear voices raised in song, but I cannot. It hurts him, strange as that is to me.

I drink deeply from my cup and never find it empty in all the short minutes slipping from me. Soon, I will be a wife in full and the thought of ascending those stairs at his side has me tied up in knots on the inside. My mind refuses to pay attention to the entertainment, skittering around those humorous tales and not letting them slide into comprehension. Wonderings on this nights activities travel in circles in my mind, a never ceasing whirl. I recall Jocelyn's bliss when she returned from Will that first night she went to him, but then Etienne's drunken kiss as we traveled leaps forward. On the heels of that memory is the memory of yesterday and of his hands upon me, eager caresses, just a bit rough with want. There is his kiss with that ardent embrace, the searing touch of his mouth claiming mine. And last to come is the lighter brush of his lips this morning, the possessive showing of his place to me.

The intensity that charges the smallest exchanges with him frightens me. Our conversations are no thing of gentle discourse. He is mocking and sarcastic and cruel with his words. Indeed, he is much the verbal opponent when he wishes to be so, as much a threat there as he is physically. This intensity, it is a consuming thing, leaping flames of fire licking at us. I leave our encounters strangely charged and drained at the same time, which is most confusing. I do not want to go up those stairs with him, for I fear to be consumed by that fire once we are alone and all the barriers he has put up for polite company come crashing down between us.

I almost long for the mildness of Roland's kiss. I was careless in my wishing for passion it seems. There is passion here and it will raze me into ashes.

All too soon, our wedding supper is over, the musicians asking permission to begin the dancing for our guests. It is on the tip of my tongue to ask for more stories, more poems and plays, but Etienne looks at me and the words disappear. I have stayed him long enough. It is time to become his wife, for better or worse. My decision to be an obedient daughter is a heavy throttling weight around my neck, that beautiful ring on my finger burning itself into my flesh as a brand. Etienne raises his hand, trailing his fingers along my cheek, thumb caressing my trembling lower lip. He licks his lips and the smile he gives brings to mind a predatory beast gazing at a luscious meal. "You may begin. We retire for the night." 

His hand slides down my neck and arm, fingers twining in mine in a hard grip. I sense a coiling of energy within him and understand what he plans. We will make a run for our chamber and hope we can outrun the crowd. He stands and, with a hard jerk, pulls me from my chair. I stumble, but keep to my feet, gathering my skirts with my free hand. The stairs are a long way off at the far end of the hall. If I fall, I believe he would drag me. 

We are halfway across the hall before the guests realize we are fleeing their presence. Luckily, they had congregated about the musicians, eager for the songs and dances that were coming. Had they forgotten my request for music to be played _after_ Etienne and I retire for the night? Apparently. The crowd follows us. Etienne pulls me along, urging me to run faster and I stumble at the speed we must use. The voices of our guests are raised with merriment, their footsteps loud behind us. I glance back as he swings me forward, my momentum carrying me through the door to our chamber and several paces beyond. Etienne puts the bar on the door before they catch us. Loud protests of our flight come to us through the heavy wood panel, then several crude suggestions on what he should do with me and gradually, there is quiet outside our door.

Breathing hard, he looks at me, ripping open his coat and letting it drop it to the floor. "Nothing like a good chase to get the blood going."

I clasp my hands together and glance around the chamber. I have never looked in here before. I had not wanted to until the last possible moment, because in my mind, to look in here would acknowledge that his bed is where I shall be. And now I am here. We have a private chamber, a new thing in many manor houses and something his family embraced. The bed is large and canopied, difficult to miss. It dominates one wall, sitting on a raised dais. There is a table and a couple chairs, along with two big trunks. One of the trunks is mine. It has been moved here sometime during this long day.

My pulse pounds in my ears. There is silence between us, not a complete silence, for I hear his breaths and the sounds of him pouring liquid into a cup, but the absence of conversation. I would not know what to say even if I were inclined to speak right now. What does a woman say before bedding down with her husband for the first time, a man who thinks she has been free with herself? I move away from the bed and look at him. He is staring at me over the rim of a cup, his eyes narrowed. I wait for the explosion of his temper that I am certain will come.

Etienne drinks the liquid and sets the cup down, then comes to me. I take a step back for every step he makes forward until I am against the wall, my cold hands pressed to cool stone that almost feels warm. I fix my gaze upon his chest at the spot where the linen is parted. When his voice comes, it is obvious he is amused, the tone mild.

" In the future I shall remember you have no head for liquor, Christiana." He takes my head in his hands, raising my face until I am gazing into his eyes. "I had not intended on getting you drunk, but it will save some time."

Drunk? Is that what has caused my head to whirl and my attention to waver? Is that why those memories turn about my mind in such a fashion? That? Relief travels through me and I slump against the wall, giving a laugh. It is drink that has exacerbated my fears, nothing more. "That is a relief."

"Mmm..." He still turns my face left and right, thumbs running along my jaw and lips in tingling touches. "What is a relief?"

"That I am only drunk." My tongue runs ahead of my thoughts. "I have been thinking all day about how there is this intense, scary _something_ between us and I thought that once we were alone it would consume me and I would be drowning in this great tub of intense passion that I cannot get away from." I give a laugh to show how ridiculous this sounds and he does not laugh back. No, he gives me one of those focused stares of his as his fingers smooth my hair from my brow. My moment of relief slides away.

"Drowning?" He asks, brows raised, voice a mellifluous caress. "Let's explore that idea, hmm?"

"Um..." I gulp. The whirling of my head is a hindrance now. I am unable to turn my head away before his mouth comes down upon mine, nor do I truly want to. The time has come for me to discover those things Jocelyn and I giggled about as young girls. 

This kiss is somehow everything his previous kisses have been and more, nothing held back. His tongue pries my lips apart, then darts inside to meet with mine. I am helpless not to respond to that hungry searching, for I am hungry too. I am so many things right now that I do not know exactly what I am. I am scared and tired, drunk and helpless. But I am also empowered and hungry, this meshing of our lips and tongues bringing a fierce need to the forefront of my being. I want him. I want what he can give me, what only _he_ can give me. This yearning is for him alone and no other can quench my thirst, slake my hunger.

His hands move on my body, arms wrapping about me and lifting, and as we continue to kiss, Etienne takes me to our bed. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Damn. This will teach me to make assumptions. How was I supposed to know that the girl really was a virgin? By all accounts of her behavior with that peasant, he had the chance to have her. Yet he did not do so. Why? Why would any man resist the temptation when she was there and willing? Was it she who stopped him? Is Christiana truly a Lady in that regard? Was she honestly saving her virtue for marriage?

The evidence is there. My wife was not wanton. No, I must rephrase that, for her surrender to me proves that she is delightfully wanton, as much as I could ever wish in a woman. If I had not had that very obvious proof -- the maidenhead I breached with all the delicacy and gentleness of a savage invader sacking a castle -- her willing eager manner would have led me to the same assumption I held to begin with: that she was a woman familiar with a man. I know that is false though. My wife did not allow herself to be seduced before marriage. There. That is it.

And now I feel lower than a worm for having cast such aspersions on her character. All this time I have been a crude bastard to her, when I should have been courting her as I had courted Jocelyn. It is no wonder that she enlisted my mothers aid. It is no wonder she was alarmed by my words yesterday on the training field. Perhaps my sources were wrong. Perhaps it was not she they saw going with that peasant.

I shake my head and glance across the room at the bed where she is sleeping. No, it was her. She kept herself from him though. My wife did not play those same games that Jocelyn was up to with Thatcher.

I draw on a robe and pace the chamber. It is on my mind to go back to bed and apologize for my wrong conclusions, but I ignore the impulse. She should have known better than to go with the man alone. Anyone would have thought as I did, including her father if the man had any true interest in his daughter. No. I will not apologize to her. The deed has been done. She was a virgin and her husband -- _I_ -- relieved her of the state. All is right, all is well.

Still, if I plan on bedding her a regular occurrence, and I most definitely do, it would be wise to show her she can enjoy the entire matter, not just a part of it.

I take the bar from the door and open it. As luck would have it, a servant is coming down the corridor. I stop her and explain my order. She nods.

"Very well, my Lord. It will be ready then for you."

Satisfied that my next action will help, I go to bed. Christians is asleep, her breath deep and even. She has got all the covers on her side, rolled about her as a cocoon of sorts. I leave them to her and force myself to rest.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hour is early when I wake, and I find myself being carried, lifted high in Etienne's arms, a sheet wrapped about me in haphazard fashion. He carries me down a curving flight of stairs and into a small chamber I have not noticed before. The air within is close and humid, Etienne setting me to my feet before the largest bathing tub I have ever seen. It is sunken into the floor, or rather the floor is built up around it, and it is deep, filled with steaming, fragrant water. I have been bathing in a much smaller tub since arriving here. He gets into it, the water reaching his hips, and holds out his hands to me.

"Come."

I go to him. The water encases and caresses and I secure my arms about his shoulders as we sink into that warmth. 

Much later, I work on clearing the snarls from my wet hair, watching my husband dress. _My husband_. I feel a goofy grin on my lips. I am a wife now, my place in his household official. My heartbeat races at the delicious remembrance of his naked flesh pressed intimately to mine not even an hour earlier. If we did not have to be up and about, I would not mind staying here longer.

Jocelyn was right about the sweeping passion, but her descriptions did not do it justice. I have been thoroughly consumed by the razing fires of ecstasy and enjoyed being taken over by the insanity of it. I watch Etienne pull on a shirt, then move to the bed as he tucks it in to his breeches. The memories of the hours in his arms stay at the forefront of my thoughts and I begin to think that he is not all that bad really. Any man that can show such tenderness for his wife cannot be too terrible, can he? He places his hands flat on the mattress and leans down.

"Well you certainly didn't bleed much after that overly dramatic screech you gave." His tone is decidedly critical.

My grin slides into a frown, the loveliness of the previous hours sinking into exasperation and my wavering of opinion on him slipping firmly back onto the 'crude man' side. How beautiful of him to ruin my mood with a single sentence. "Hm." I give a tiny, miffed noise, rolling my eyes. "So sorry I did not bleed like a stuck pig for you," I murmur, forcing the comb through one particularly bad snarl.

He hears, though I had thought he would not, his head turning to me, expression thoughtful, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Now, he comes to me, taking up the dagger that rests on the table beside me and tapping it's blade flat on his left palm. I raise my gaze up from that hypnotic tapping, apprehension crawling along my spine.

"A stuck pig." He repeats, giving me one of those long, piercing looks he is so good at. Something like a laugh escapes his throat. He returns to the bed, still tapping the dagger. "It would have been more convenient, wife."

Convenient? I turn in my chair. Surely he is not crude enough to want to....I wince as he closes his hand in a fist about the dagger and yanks the blade out. Blood drips onto the sheets, my mouth opening, a sinking sensation in my belly. I am certain now what he plans: the showing of the sheets. Ugh. What a barbaric thing to do. He will have the sheet strung up somewhere for all to see his fortune in marrying a virgin.

Etienne walks back to me, smug smile upon his lips. He sets the dagger on the table and holds out his injured hand. "Tend me."

I stare at him. "How will you explain where that cut came from?" I ask, setting my comb aside and standing.

He gives a shrug, then picks up the water pitcher and hurls it down. Pottery shards and water slide across the floor. "_Now _tend me." His expression is very much like that of a little boy who has gotten what he wanted, one brow cocked and an arrogant glint to his gaze. I hurry to find a strip of cloth to bind the wound with and, that task completed, we leave our chamber and descend the stairs for mass as husband and wife.


	12. News Comes

Title: News Comes

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: A letter from Christiana.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: To avoid confusion, the letter is italicized.

Kiftgirl, could you email me with specific examples please?

~~~~~~~~~~

It is a special occasion when a letter from Christiana arrives. All of us are anxious to have a moment of rest to read and discuss her news. I suppose it is easier to read it to everyone than to run about telling the contents to each person separately. I have her letter in hand and am sitting in our new home before the fire in the great hall, waiting for Wat to arrive. He has been arguing with our cooking staff since we arrived and several times already I have had to go there and explain that, yes, Wat can eat whenever he has the extra time from his duties to do so. I also explained that he has a hollow leg, so to speak. The cook, a dear older woman, then seemed to understand the situation.

I glance about at the others. Will has settled on the floor in front of me, his body turned, his arms and head resting on my lap, his eyes closed. He is not asleep though. I brush a few strands of golden hair from his brow and move on. 

Roland is sewing on a dress for me, something he insisted he did not mind doing. It was one that Christiana was working on as practice of her skill and she left it behind with the idea that we could find someone to finish it. He is quick in his sewing and I do believe he will have it done soon. It was not my idea for him to work on it, believe me. I was content to try my own hand at sewing, though I know I am poor at the task and would likely ruin it, but he found it when we were finishing up our packing for the journey here and asked Will if it needed doing. Will told him if he wanted something to sew that badly, he could work on it. Personally, I think it was just a way for Roland to hang on to Christiana a bit longer. There is a superstition that a person sewing sews a bit of their soul into every stitch made. The cloth was held by her, worked by her and he could very well consider it a piece of her.

Kate sits by the hearth, staring at the flames. Her face is sooty from her work and she looks weary. This is the only time she comes into the manor. When I wish to talk with her, I must go out of the manor to do so. Upon arriving, she took possession of one small cottage and set up shop. Kate has caused quite a stir among the folk here. A pretty young woman doing such work? The men were wary, but the quality of her work has turned them to accepting her.

Finally, Wat saunters in, a thick wedge of bread in hand. He sits down beside Kate and I open the letter.

"_Dearest Jocelyn and friends, _

I can no longer make any claim that I understand any whit of men, for Etienne has me so very confused. He was the most attentive of men on our wedding day and ceased to be the crude beast he had been since I left your camp with him. We had a lovely night, after the first initial bit, but that is another story entirely and I do not feel comfortable sharing it when I know you read my letters to all. Perhaps if we have a chance to speak face to face, I will tell you. Anyway, I began to think that perhaps we had all been wrong about him. He is not so bad, I thought. How can he be when he showed such tenderness?

Hah! He is a barbarian to be sure! He has taken the crudest of customs, one I had not thought men actually did, and initiated it. I will not keep you in suspense. The sheets have been displayed.

Yes, friends, my husband has strung up the bed sheets for all to see his fortune in marrying an untouched female. There is more. After making critical comment on the small amount of blood speckling the sheets, he cut himself to add to it. Is my husband not a prize? I must look up at it at each meal and see that stupid sheet before us. He flaunts it, Jocelyn. He is so pleased with himself that I swear he has forgotten he accused me many times these past weeks of being a loose woman."

I cover my mouth with a hand, unsuccessful in stifling a laugh. It is funny and yet it is not. I can just picture Adhemar smiling with smugness as his servants raise that sheet somewhere where all will see it. It does not surprise me that he would favor that old custom. At least now he finally believes Christiana was not free with herself.

Will is grinning, Roland shaking his head and Kate laughing out loud.

"Oh that is in good taste." Wat comments around a mouthful of bread. "Nothing I would like more than to have to look at an old bloody sheet while I am trying to eat."

"Who are you kidding, Wat? Nothing stops you from eating." Kate grins, her gaze showing an obvious fondness for Wat, something I do not think she is aware is reflected there.

"I have a hearty appetite."

"Hearty? Is that the word for it? Glutton comes to mind to me." She replies with a snort.

"Quiet, you two." Will says, tapping the paper with a finger. "I want to hear the rest." 

I return my attention to the letter. "_Again I say I am confused. I am in a strange place with him right now. He is alternately kind and cruel in his words. His cutting remarks are the sort that could be taken as compliments if one were simple and unable to discern the tone. Jocelyn, you remember how he spoke to Will that day Will rode up and asked your name as we sat in the galley? Mocking him because of his armor and that long name he used? Those are the kind of remarks I hear. With me though, they usually follow genuine compliments, like this morning as I dressed._

He watched me, arms crossed and a frown on his face that could sour milk. "That color becomes you, Christiana, but try not dress so commonly all the time. You are my wife now, so dress like it."

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him that he has not commissioned a seamstress to measure me for clothes or make them, or had cloth bought, but I nodded instead, feeling my cheeks burn from that remark. It was not even that bad as far as his remarks go, mild even, yet I was instantly ashamed of my dress and surcoat. He managed to compliment how I look in my favorite blue and turn right around and criticize my entire wardrobe. In two sentences! I only have the clothes your family bought for me to wear. I was your maid, your companion. What does he expect?

__

All this past week, we have had guests here to celebrate our marriage. Most are friendly and a few are not, but for the most part, the days are fine. We get up from our bed after a blissful night and spend the day entertaining our guests. Patrice has been a great help to me, as she seems to know every single person quite well. Lydia though....The girl is up to something that she should not be up to, of that I am certain. Her manner has been even more secretive than usual. She now runs **every** time I see her. I am at a loss to explain this. I have done nothing to her. I do not know what could be causing her to behave this way. I even went to Patrice about it.

We took a walk in the garden, where the harvest of fall produce is nearly finished. "I had thought, as Lydia's mother, that you could shed some light on her manner. Ever since I arrived, she has been avoiding me. The only time we talk is when you are with us, save one time where she mentioned some girl named Beatrice to me."

Patrice thought a moment, then looked at me. "Lydia has a situation right now that is greatly troubling her, something I warned her not to become involved in and she ignored my counsel. After all, I am only her mother. I could never understand what she is feeling, right?" There was a bitterness in her words. I already knew that their mother-daughter relationship was not the best and this confirmed it. I also know that Etienne is Patrice's favorite. Is that maybe part of Lydia's problem?

__

I stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.

She gave roll of her eyes and a soft snort that is pure Etienne. He gets that expression from her. "Do not trouble yourself overmuch about Lydia. The day is coming when she will be found out and Etienne must actually deal with her himself instead of putting it all upon me. I have washed my hands of her stubbornness. Etienne will learn that he must perform his duties here as well as those of military service. Being Count is not just a title, it is duties as well. For that matter, being head of a household is more than what he has done so far."

"How long ago did his father die?" I asked. It never occurred to either of us, did it, to find out how long Etienne had been Count of Anjou? Being new to Tournament, you and I, Jocelyn, assumed he had been Count for a long time.

"Going on two years. For that entire time, I can almost count on the fingers of just one hand how many complete months Etienne has spent here at this manor attending fully to duties as Count. He spent most of those two years either at war or at Tournament, leaving it all to me, his grandfather, and the Stewards." She stopped, giving a tiny sigh. "My mouth runs away. You asked on Lydia, not Etienne."

"I do not mind hearing about him."

She smiled. "You will be good for him in the long run, Christiana. Truly. He needs your sort of gentleness in his life. And as for Beatrice, that girl was set aside a long time ago. She has no importance to any here, nor will she ever have importance. Consider her just a name, nothing more." I opened my mouth to ask more and she shook her head. "No. Now about Lydia. Pretend you do not see her. Then her behavior will not bother you. Simple."

And with that bit of wisdom, we returned to the manor to find Etienne moody and out of sorts about something. I never did discover what. He was surly and snappish the entire day. That evening, alone with him in our chamber, he stretched out on his stomach on our bed and motioned me close. "Rub my shoulders and back." It was a command, not a request.

Now, I can recall only a couple times where I have massaged anyone's back. Can you think of more than that? His order made my palms sweat. I am familiar with touching him yes, but this is an altogether different sort of touch to give. So, I climbed up onto the bed with him and sat beside him. I had to stretch to reach his entire back. I thought I was doing quite well for not really knowing what I was doing, but apparently I was gravely mistaken.

"Is that the best you can do?" He twisted his head to look at me, annoyance glittering in those hazel orbs.

I took my hands from his back, folded them together. "Yes."

He did a half roll of his eyes. "Did Jocelyn's family not educate you in this matter?"

"No." I shook my head.

Etienne sighed, a huge, long, drawn out whoosh of breath. "Very well. Straddle me." I hesitated, but he growled out, "Well?"

Have you become a masseuse as well, Jocelyn? Do you rub Will's back for him?"

Will lifts his head. "No, you do not rub my back. Why is that? I demand you service me like that, woman." He is teasing me, I know that. Sometimes, we make light of the view that a woman is only to serve a man and bear his children.

I smile and clear my throat to read more. Later, when we are alone, I will rub his back. I will rub anything he wants me to.

"_He was extremely demanding on what I must do. I learned what a muscle knot feels like beneath my fingers and how to work it out without using too much pressure. He has a problem with muscle aches on his left side. Etienne has, since that eve, admitted that the aches are largely from that armor he wears. I have also learned that he is ticklish along his ribs and will wiggle about if I draw my fingers lightly along the skin there. Finding that out made him even more human to me and less like a beast to be feared most of the time. How can I stay afraid when I know how to cause the great Count Adhemar to squirm like a child?_

Well, you can guess what happened next, when all his muscle knots had been tended. I will not give detail.

That is all for now. I hope to have more time to write as we settle into our daily routine again. Pray for me, that I shall have the wisdom of Esther in dealing with my husband. I will certainly need it.

My love to all,

Christiana."

"And that is the end." I say, setting the pages on the table beside me.

Roland sets the cloth aside, sticking the needle into it. "She is well then. I am glad." He gets up and walks from the hall. I do not understand why he stays to hear the letters. It pains him to hear of her with another man, yet he refuses to stay away for this. I was hesitant when he first asked me to read Christiana's letters to him. I knew of his affection for her. How could I not? I think Roland would have married her himself if he could have. He would have given her everything he was capable and done anything for her.

He gave me an almost pleading look that day, his hands holding Christiana's first letter out to me. "Please Lady. I have to know."

As I read him her words, I cast covert glances at his face. He has an expressive face. Not as expressive as Wat's face, but then no one's face is as expressive as Wat's. Roland reacted to her words with first sadness, then anger, and finally just nodded.

"Thank you."

Why does he need to hear what she has written? It only saddens him and makes him wonder what might have been. I am finding that I, like Christiana, do not really understand men at all.

Kate speaks up, pulling me from my thoughts on Roland. "She is coping it seems. It is just like a man to criticize a woman though."

Will's eyes go wide and he lifts his head from my lap. "Oh come on, Kate! I do not do that. Do not put me in the same category as Adhemar."

"Me either." Wat gets up. 

There is a twinkle in her eyes. "So the two of you are exceptions, not the rule. And I did not specifically mention Adhemar."

"There is no rule and Adhemar was implied in your statement." Will sits forward and I do as well, putting my forearms on my thighs and clasping my hands together.

"No," I say. "Kate has a point." Two outraged male stares turn my way and I hurry to explain. "Consider men besides yourselves. Look at the clergy. They both praise us and condemn us. On one hand, we are Mary, pure and chosen by God, birthing Jesus in the stable. But on the other, we are Eve, wicked temptress, tool of Satan, tempting Adam to fall. We are both pure and wanton at the same time, imperfect because we are not male, considered jealous of the state of perfection they claim that being male is. It is the ultimate in criticism."

Kate nods her head. "Exactly. We women have male criticism on all sides. Our fathers, brothers, husbands and sons. There are rare few who do not criticize like that."

This is what I am coming to love. These debates of ours. We will discuss this issue for hours and I look forward to doing so. Christiana's letter will be picked apart over the next couple days and I shall pen a response to send in return.


	13. Concession

Title: Concession

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar begins putting his house in order after his long absence.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

~~~~~~~~~~

With the wedding feasting finally over, I have spent the past few days pouring over the records of my Stewards for our various houses. My mother has kept the manor running in her usual efficient way, but some things I must do for myself, such as find Lydia a husband. The girl is becoming a nuisance. I love my sister, but her attitude towards my wife is tiresome. She refuses to speak Christiana's name, ignores her orders for the household and will not remain in the same room with her unless forced to do so. She will show Christiana respect or she will find herself sent off to stay with Adele until I can find a man to take her. I do not know what ails Lydia, nor do I care. She must learn that there are times to behave in a proper manner and times it is acceptable not to. Her daily dealings with Christiana are not the time to behave improperly.

My mother slips into the chair across from me, adjusting an embroidered pillow behind her back. She has come into my chamber with enough noise for six people, humming, slamming the door open all the way and stomping her feet as she walks. "Do you bother yourself with your duties at last? My son, I am shocked."

I ignore her remark and state my business for her. "Christiana is doing her own hair and dressing herself. What is wrong with that mother?"

She fixes me with a satisfied stare. "So you have finally noticed. She has only been here...what?... two months? I was certain you would not notice for another three or four."

She is set on provoking me of late, saying anything to push me into anger. Has my entire family gone mad while I was gone? My mother dumps every task she has performed for years onto me and Christiana, my sweet and only slightly moody sister has been replaced by some sullen, fully disagreeable _wench_ and my grandfather holes up in his chamber with nothing but books to occupy him, insisting he shall see no one and do no thing until his studies are completed. What he studies I do not know. 

I narrow my eyes at her. "See that a maid is found for her, perhaps a maid-companion." Will Christiana like having a maid-companion? I believe so. It will give her someone to talk with and perhaps her friendship with Jocelyn will fade from long distance.

She purses her lips and nods slowly. "I know of a girl. She is a relative of Merrick's. Some sort of cousin I believe. Her name is Sarah."

Merrick D'Arcy is a neighbor of ours, and a boyhood friend of mine. He has relatives all over three countries. A cousin of his would be a good influence for Christiana. At least the women in _their_ households know their place and stay in it. "I shall leave it in your capable hands then, mother. You know better than I what a woman needs in a maid."

"Have you considered your wife's wardrobe, Etienne?" She queries, sliding the accounts book I was studying across to her and glancing at the notations on the open page. Her lips purse as she runs her finger along one line. She has noticed the discrepancy in the numbers at a single glance, while I had studied the page for long moments before noticing that a Steward is skimming funds from one of the manors I am in charge of. However, she does not point it out to me as she would have done months earlier, choosing to make no comment.

"I consider it every night as I remove it from her."

She rolls her eyes. "How did I raise such a smart ass? You know very well what I mean." The book is returned to me. "The girl needs a proper wardrobe, one befitting her station. Her clothes at present reflect poorly on you. They are maid's clothes, not those of a noble lady."

"So have a wardrobe made for her. Whatever she needs."

"Whatever she needs? Oh, I will." The gleam in her eyes almost makes me reconsider giving her _carte blanche_. She will have Christiana better dressed than Princess Joan if I am reading her expression correctly. 

"Now," I squelch the urge to set limits for her and turn to the topic I have been dreading discussing with her. "As to Lydia. What has transpired with her while I was away? Tell me. Her behavior puzzles me."

"I have washed my hands of her. It is for her to admit and not for me to tell you." Disapproval replaces satisfaction in her eyes, giving them a hardness. I am fast becoming exasperated with her reticence on this matter. How am I to deal with Lydia if I do not know what to punish her for? I am starting to wish Edward would ask me to join him in battle. At least I know what to expect there. The women of this household are enough to drive a sane man over the edge.

"Why? Why stop telling me of her behavior now? You have never been bothered before. Before, you would tell me everything she did that needed my attention."

"I have my reasons."

"Will I discover these reasons anytime soon, mother?"

"Oh yes." Her brow lowers in a thunderous frown. "You shall know very soon if I have my way."

As she leaves, I reflect on my mother. That Lady has always managed to get the last word. I believe it would kill her not to. And her last words are usually dramatic in nature. It is partly because of her that I spent so much time away from here. I love her, but I do not like living under the same roof with her. She is whimsical and blunt at the same time. She pretends to be flighty while running this manor like any man would. I _do_ rank many women below trophies and horses and rightly so, but there are exceptions, as my mother proves rather ably.

With a glance at the window, where I see the sun is shining and we are having a mild late fall day, I return my reluctant gaze to the accounts. From what I can tell, only that one Steward has been bold enough to steal so obviously. With a sigh, I push the book away and shut it. My concentration was broken by my mother and I know I will not be able to concern myself with the numbers on the pages if I sat here all day. I decide to go to the training field.

Germaine is my sparring partner this day, but hand-to-hand combat is not quelling my boredom, so we move on to archery. Archery is a skill I must constantly practice to stay in top form on. Scarce have we started when I see Christiana's slender form slowly walking across the field towards us. I hand my bow to Germaine and walk to meet her. Why has she come out here?

"Christiana? Do you make coming here a habit?" She is nervous, her glance moving about the field, not touching upon me. One of her hands twirls the end of one little braid over and over.

"No." She replies, shaking her head and licking her lips. I wait. She takes a deep breath. "Musicians have come to the hall. They are asking to play."

"So let them." I shrug, as though it is a normal thing for musicians to play in the hall when I am here and not something I have arranged after much thought on the matter. "You came all the way out here to tell me that?" Now she looks up at me, her beautiful brown eyes wide and wary.

"You knew?"

"Yes." She clasps her hands tightly together, once more glancing the length of the field. "They are for you, wife."

"For me? Why?" A tiny frown curls her brow.

I cross my arms. She will not accept it and go. She must ask the reason too? "Did you think I would completely deprive you of a thing that is so much a part of you? I know you see me as harsh, but do you truly see me as _that_ cruel of a man?"

Christiana shifts uncomfortably, her mouth trembling softly.

I step closer to her, uncrossing my arms to slip one about her waist and bring her flush against me. Her body stiffens. My other hand lifts up her chin a notch and I study her face. Her thoughts are plain. She _does_ see me as that cruel. Startled by that, I release her. 

Is this where I am lacking? That question has been bothering me for a long while now. Do I have my answer at last? Is my harshness, my ruthlessness, the cause? Suddenly, the same feeling I had in that gaol after administering that beating Thatcher sweeps over me. I see myself as Christiana must for just a second and it lays me out onto the ground with all the force of being unhorsed. I do not like it. I do not wish to revisit that place. I _will not _revisit it. 

I cross my arms again. "Now I know where my character stands fully in your eyes. I suppose we are even in our assumptions then. The musicians are for you, because music means so much to you. They are to be in residence here. Enjoy them for a couple hours a day five or six days a week while I am training. Dance if you wish. My mother might like to join you and possibly even Lydia if you can catch her when she is not sulking."

All the rest of the day, I cannot get Christiana's expression out of my mind. Do others see me as such as well? Am I too harsh? Should the question bother me as much as it is? I wrestle with the thought all night and am distracted to the point of only vaguely realizing Christiana is in an amorous mood. When I do not respond to her, she gives an annoyed snort before pulling all of the covers onto herself and leaving me with a tiny corner of the blanket. I stay awake, shivering from the cold of our chamber until I am finally unable to resist the pull of slumber.

Days later, I venture into the manor to see how my concession is being received. The noise assaults my ears immediately upon opening the door, but for once I find I can ignore the harsh discord. I see my mother present, clapping her hands and smiling. My grandfather has even emerged from his chamber and is dancing with Christiana. They are all laughing and enjoying themselves.

As I move forward, I get a clearer view of my wife. Even from where I stand, I can see that she is flushed from the exercise and I cannot help but admire the fluid grace with which she performs the intricate steps of the dance. I have always noted her grace, even when I pursued Jocelyn. They were habitually together, so one could not keep from noticing them, a team of beauty set upon the world.

I had wondered why a maid was allowed to wear the fabrics Christiana wore, until it dawned on me that she must be a maid-companion, a lesser noble serving a greater for some family reason, whether it was for lack of a dowry to present to a man or because her family was so poor of funds they needed income of any sort. The latter was the reason in Christiana's case. When I was a young boy, my mother had a maid-companion, a meek thing that had the annoying tendency to cry whenever anyone raised their voice. She cried quite a bit as I recall....

My thoughts turn once more to my motives in marrying Christiana. I still cannot put my thumb directly on one single reason. Oh, I can pretend I offered for her because I thought her a beautiful second if I could not have Jocelyn, a pretty piece to show off at banquets and the like. I would be lying however, to speak that as reason. It is a thought I have though. She _is_ a pretty piece to show off. Properly outfitted, she shall be the envy of many and it will be my pleasure to show her off as mine.

I need heirs, yet that reason is not fully the one either. Any woman would have done for that. Her mind? I shake my head. Most women have little of intelligent thought in their heads and I have not attempted to ascertain if she is one of those rare few who can comprehend man's things, such as politics and sciences. She is capable of reading and writing and ciphering. Hugh stressed that to me when I spoke with him. He almost seemed proud of her on that, mentioning that her sisters had been only marginally interested in those three things.

What drew me to her? This question follows me about almost as much as the question of where and what I am lacking. Do I have deeper motives that I am unaware of possessing? All I know is that once it was clear that Jocelyn was given to Thatcher, I could look no further than Christiana.

My eyes lit upon her directly after Jocelyn's father informed me of his final decision. I saw her clearly, not as a lesser noble working as a maid, but as a single woman, available for taking. The sunlight was upon her face that morning, auburn highlights revealed in her long hair by those golden rays. I remember she gave me a courteous nod of her head as we passed on the stair. What about _her_, my mind asked then, my gaze following her form as she went into the building. I could not stop thinking about her. I had no interest in the prostitutes of London that I had occasionally visited. The other young women of London did not tempt me. No, I had an idea to learn as much of Christiana as I could. Only her. I discussed her with my sources, had her followed and then began my journey to see her father before even a full week after that final joust had passed.

Hugh was surprised by my interest, at first trying to talk me out of having her as visions of losing the income Jocelyn's family paid for her service flashed across his mind. Once I let it slip, rather intentionally, that Christiana was mingling with peasants on a daily basis, Hugh warmed to the idea of being kin by marriage. He warmed to the idea of the influence of my family at his disposal. He then became enthusiastic in his bargaining and the nearly daily letters to Christiana began.

A movement opposite my place in the shadows catches my attention and I see Lydia, watching as I do. My attention shifts to her. I am sincerely puzzled as to what has caused Lydia to change. She was fine when father died. She grieved as the rest of us did. And the last time I was home she was fine as well. It is only in the last six months or so that she has become different.

I frown. I should marry her off. But to who? Who would care for Lydia in the manner befitting a jewel of this family? Who would put up with her the way she is at present? If all thoughts of dowry were put aside, I would offer her to Merrick D'Arcy. However, her dowry is just small enough that his family would consider it an insult to even suggest the possibility of a match. Money must be a consideration. I must make a match that will be beneficial to this family and the man's. 

I catch Lydia's stare, motioning her to me, but she flees instead. _Flees_! My own sister runs from me. Intending on following her, I take several steps further into the hall. Silence descends as they see me, the music trailing off. All of those present for the music and dancing stop and watch me. There is a sensation of closeness to the hall, a claustrophobic tightness. I can almost hear their breathe, labored from the dance. They are waiting, all of them, to see what I will do. The musicians are cradling their instruments. My mother and grandfather are glancing at one another.

Christiana starts towards me without hesitation in her steps. "Etienne?"

I force a bland smile as she comes near. "You like the music?"

"Yes. Thank you." Her smile somehow seems worth the discomfort of my ears.

I cannot think of a thing to say. I am speechless before her. How...disconcerting. I nod and leave the hall as quickly as I can manage, leaving them to their entertainment. 


	14. Exposed

Title: Exposed

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Christiana discovers what has been making Lydia wary of her.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: I will be away on business for the next couple weeks, so expect the next update around October 15. It will not be until then that I have the time to update.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lydia is sick in bed and, with Patrice gone to see Adele, it is left to me to tend to her, whether she wishes me to or not. Someone must see to her, to nurse her back to health. I watch Sarah gather herbs and ointments onto a tray with an efficient, knowledgeable hand. It was a surprise to me when she arrived, a maid-companion of my own, commissioned by Patrice with Etienne's approval. She is a cousin to our nearest neighbor, a man I have not yet met named Merrick. Sarah is young, only fourteen, and will be with us until her family can arrange a suitable marriage for her. It seems the young man she was betrothed to died suddenly, leaving a huge mess for both families to sort out.

Whatever the case, and however long she is here, I enjoy her company. She is a candid, happy girl with manners that are impeccable. We share many interests and I am grateful that Patrice decided upon her. Her presence does not replace Jocelyn's friendship, but rather gives me another friend to while the time away with. Perhaps some day Sarah and I shall be close friends as Jocelyn and I became, but for now we are treading slowly into trusting one another.

"I am ready my Lady." She says, lifting the tray. She insists on using proper terms to address me at all times, something she admitted her family stressed to her. I would rather she use my name, though I suppose that will eventually come about if she is here long enough. 

So, with much reluctance, I lead the way to Lydia's chamber. Surely something on that tray will help Lydia's ailment. Having Sarah here is a plus, as she has experience with sickness, her mother extremely interested in the healing arts. Sarah often helped her, so if I should waver on how to help Lydia, I need only ask for her recommendation on treatment.

I find Lydia crouched over a basin, futilely retching her empty stomach into it, her shift plastered to her skin with sweat. I am shocked to see she has lost a considerable amount of weight since I arrived here, more than her tall form can afford to lose. Her collarbone is prominent, her arms so skinny as to seem skeletal. These are things her choices of clothing have been covering. Her hair is wet, not just damp, her pale skin an almost greenish cast. When I go to support her, I have to force myself not to jerk back from the heat her body is giving off.

"Sarah, I need a tub in here now. It has to have cool water, not hot. Please arrange it." The girl sets the tray down and goes at a run. 

Lydia trembles, her shaking very visible. She gives me a look of pure terror, tendrils of her hair sticking to her forehead and temples, and tries to pull away. I let her. "Go away. Please go away." She whispers, scooting herself back across the floor away from me. "Let me die."

"Lydia, you need someone to care for you. Your mother is away and cannot." I glance about the chamber. The fire has died in the hearth, the light snow we are having blowing in through the window. The precious glass panel is open wide. I hurry to the panel and shut it firmly, then see to the fire. The first thing to do is to warm the room a bit so Sarah and I do not catch ill as well. Then, we shall try and bring Lydia's fever down.

"She hates me anyway." Lydia keels over and curls up on the floor, pressing her face into the rushes. Luckily, they are clean. I ordered fresh rushes placed on the floors two days ago. "Just leave me to this. I deserve it."

"I cannot. If I did and Etienne found I had ignored your illness, he would be furious with me." Furious is an understatement. He would be more than furious. I go to her and crouch down, being careful not to touch her. "I will not leave you. You may dislike me, but I will not let you suffer if I can stop it." 

"Pretty words. Is my brother listening? Is that why you say them? You make me suffer daily." Her eyes close.

The tub is brought in, wrestled by two young men, servant girls bringing in buckets of water to fill it. Sarah shoos them out and shuts the door, then comes to us. "The water is cool, not cold. It will feel cold though."

"Lydia, you must let us help you." I steel myself for her struggles and am surprised when she gives none as we heave her up and strip her soiled shift from her. Getting her into the bath is a trial, but we manage it. She hisses from the cold against her burning skin. Again, I am surprised when she stays in the water, huddling down as Sarah and I begin to bathe her shoulders, back, and face with cloths dipped in the water. 

"Mother used to bathe us with cool water when we were sick as children." Her voice is listless and raw, as though it is hurting her to talk. "I remember once, when I was very small, Etienne held me in the water for her. I was sick like this. She cried every time they had to put me in the water, something about how she was afraid to lose another child so soon."

I glance across the tub at Sarah. She shrugs. 

Soon, Lydia's shivers cease and I touch her brow. Heat is not coming from her like a blazing fire anymore and she seems a bit more alert. Lydia stands and steps from the tub on shaking legs, helping us to dry her and slide a fresh shift over her head. With Sarah's assistance, she climbs into bed and pulls the covers to her.

I sit at the bedside as Sarah busies herself mixing a potion for Lydia to drink and once Lydia has drunk it, I try to leave. Lydia refuses to let me, her hand grasping at my sleeve. She tugs and will not let go. "Stay with me. Please. Do not go yet."

I do not think that she has suddenly decided she likes me, but rather she has need of someone with her and I am the best available for the time being. I tell Sarah she can go and pull a chair to the side of the bed. I shall be more comfortable there than perched on the edge of Lydia's bed. She points a thin hand at my stomach.

"Are you caught yet?"

"No." I am not pregnant. Although I would not be surprised to find I am so within a couple months. Etienne is determined to have an heir as soon as possible, and I would not mind too terribly having a tiny babe to hold in my arms. In all truth, I find I am able to put aside many of his inconsiderate words when night comes and we adjourn to the privacy of our chamber. I do not think it wise to hold a grudge from day to day, not married to a man such as he. It cannot be healthy to do so. I forgive him those little things. I have to make that concession in order to make this marriage work.

A flash of antagonism appears in her eyes, but is short lived, her words holding no malice at all. "You did not let him have you early did you? If you had, then perhaps you would now be expecting a babe."

"Perhaps." I agree. She is right. If Etienne and I had been together on the journey, I might be in that state now. But we did not, I am not, and I do not tell her that it was Etienne who held himself away from me and not the other way around. "Soon, if God wills it."

"He wills much." She rolls onto her back, arms flung out across the pillows. "My illness. It is a punishment, I am sure. How can it be anything else with this pain?"

"A punishment for what?" I ask, smoothing my skirts about my knees. Even in sickness she has her mother's tendency for drama.

She turns her head, stares at me, mouth agape. "You can ask that with a straight face? _You_?" Lydia rolls to face me. "I have been in agony since you saw us that day after you arrived! I was certain you would tell Etienne and when you did not I could not figure out why you stayed silent. I have stayed out of your way praying that you would forget what you had seen without my presence about to remind you. Yet you claim you do not know why I should be punished by God Almighty?" Her expression shifts from disbelief to suspicion. "Or do you trick me into saying my sin aloud?"

I have no idea what she is talking about. What is it she thinks I saw? I shake my head. "Lydia, I have no idea what you are talking about."

"You lie. I know you saw me with him in the garden. You looked right at us."

A memory is rising from the depths of that deep well the mind, a scene I glimpsed but for a moment and quickly turned from. I had gone for a walk about the gardens, attempting to calm myself with the beautiful stillness of those fading flowers, bushes and plants. I had been delighted to learn that someone in the manor had a fondness for flowers and suspected it was Patrice, something I now know as truth. I strayed into a wild area, one a tangle of vines and tree branches against the stones of the wall about the manor. It was a secret place almost, a place Jocelyn and Will would have adored, I had thought with a smile. I kept walking and came upon a couple already there, twined together the way lovers usually are.

Until this moment I had not connected the woman with Lydia. Dear God. _Lydia has a lover. _I wonder if he is a peasant. Etienne will be furious if the man is. With his views of peasants, it will torture him. His own sister cavorting with peasants. Who else could the man be but a peasant or servant of some kind? I cannot even recall anything about the man I saw, not his face or even the cut of his clothes. "Oh Lydia....That was you?"

Her eyes widen as she watches me and tears slip down her face. "Please do not go to Etienne. Please." She covers her mouth, a hacking cough shaking her frame. I wince at the liquid, rattling sound that issues from her. This sickness has settled in her chest.

"Why Lydia?"

She returns to her splayed position, covers twisted at her hips. "I want to marry him so badly! I love him beyond anything I have ever felt before. I cannot remember a time when I did not love him. When he came and confessed his love for me in return that day, I was overjoyed. That he would neglect his duties to seek me out and confess that....I did not want to sneak about to meet him, you understand, but we could not meet in the open, not until we knew where Etienne would stand on our love." 

This seems a catharsis for her. She is telling me everything. I think she has been under such a strain from her worries that it is easier to tell it all than to hold it in any longer.

"He said Etienne would not consider him as a husband for me unless we forced his hand. He was right, I knew that. Etienne would not even consider him for me for several reasons, mainly the money issue I think. So I let him take me to bed while Etienne was gone this last time. I met him outside the manor. It was horrible trying to get away without being seen and I succeeded a few times. Then Mother found his love letters to me. She warned me not to get involved with him. She said it would only lead to trouble if I continued to meet him. She did not understand. She _never_ understands. That last time, when you saw us, he promised to approach Etienne straightaway, but I have heard nothing."

A suspicion forms in my mind. "Are you pregnant?"

"I thought I was." She admits. "But I am not. Why has he not done as he promised? I do not understand. My letters go unanswered."

I bite my lip. I almost tell her that men can be like that. They sometimes take what they want, using all the persuasion God gave them, but with the devil telling them how to entice with sweet words. Etienne is such a man. His tongue can be most sweet when he wants something and cruel when he is through.

"I have sinned by letting him do it and now I suffer from my decision! Father Persius always says that fornicators are the worst of all and God makes them wallow in pain. I am in pain. I am abed in a stagnant well of sickness."

"Others are ill also, Lydia. I do not think your sickness is from God." Perspiration has formed upon her brow, fat droplets that begin to trickle downward. I take up a discarded bath cloth from the end of the bed and press it along her face, soaking up the sweat.

Her eyes turn to mine, hope brimming them. "You think so? I feel so wretched, Christiana."

It is the first time she has spoken my name willingly. I place the cloth back where I found it. A bridge has been crossed and I anticipate harmony replacing the discord we have had between us. I grasp her hand and give her a smile. "Of course. You will be better in a day or two. Cool baths will keep your fever down and you should begin to feel a change soon." I meet her gaze square. "May I ask who he is?"

Joy lights her eyes and I am reminded so much of Jocelyn when she spoke of Will, or even when his name was mentioned. There is that glow that softens the features and gives them a dreamy expression. She opens her mouth to speak, but her gaze slides away, that light fading abruptly. I hear a creak behind me and release her hand, turning slightly in my chair.

Etienne is standing there in the doorway, his hand splayed on the wood panel. He is shaking his head slowly, side to side as though not believing what he has heard, his body rigid with violent emotion. His mouth is open and I can see the fury rising within him, not a hot, raging thing, but a cold and smoldering fury that will burn a long while. His breath grows faster and he strides forward, shoving my chair aside with me in it. I tumble to the floor, my wrist smacking the stones painfully as I attempt to stop my fall.

"I have a whore for a sister!" He roars, hands grasping the bed curtain rail above his head and shaking it. "A whore!" The heavy bed frame actually scoots a bit from the force he is using. My skirts are a tangle about my legs and I struggle to get twisted about so I can find leverage to get up.

Lydia sits up with a flinch and a tiny cry, then brings her knees up to huddle. She looks up at him, cowering there on her bed, her fright on her face. "You do not understand--"

Etienne's fists lower to his sides. They are tightly closed and shaking, I believe from the effort to not start beating on Lydia. "I understand that you could not keep your legs together until marriage like a woman should." His voice has gone calm and tight, a mottled flush spreading his face. I finally get to my knees, steadying myself with the chair. I grasp the wood tightly. "Christiana managed it and she had ample opportunity to whore about. You could not?"

"He said we had to...that you would not consider him unless I let him...." She is shrinking inside herself, wilting under her brother's rage. The sickness and fright are draining her, the slight strength that had returned from the cooling bath and Sarah's potion leaving her. She knew he would be furious with her, but the reality of his anger appears more than she had bargained, the awareness settling on her features. I see genuine fear of him there. She is not certain of what he will do now.

Etienne gives a laugh, one filled and dripping with venomous scorn. "Are you truly that naïve, Lydia? I have used that line myself before to overcome the reluctant maiden. You were nothing to him but a release."

Lydia pales. His admission and charge are visibly a shock to her. I do not think she ever actually realized the sort of man her brother is before. She knew in general how he behaved, but not particulars. So much is coming to light for her that it is painful to me to witness it. I have known the kind of man he is, but then, I was witness to his attempt to murder Will. "He...it was _not_ a line, not just a...a..._release_!" Her voice is starting to crack a bit.

"You are ruined Lydia. I must eliminate nearly all eligible men now, for who wants to wed a ruined girl?" He towers over her, practically spitting the words from his lips. A furious energy coils around him. I am caught before a storm and can only thank God that I am not in his immediate path. I stay as still and silent as I can. Now would not be the time to remind him that he had wanted to marry me when he thought I was ruined.

"He cares for me." Lydia whispers, lower lip trembling as she sinks as far as she can into the pillows behind her.

"He cared for _having_ you!" Etienne corrects with a yell that rings about the room. "Who is he? Tell me his name, Lydia. I shall have him castrated for this and you shall watch. Will that not be lovely for you, to watch your lover lose--"

"No!" She screams.

Etienne reaches down, hands taking her arms and dragging her up. He shakes her, her hair tangling about her face. Lydia beats her fists against him, twisting her body, trying to break free of his grip. "Tell me, or I swear to Almighty God that you shall have no food or drink until you admit his name! You will languish up here in your misery!"

"Merrick!" She cries, head rolling left and right. "It was Merrick..." Her voice trails off into sobs. Etienne goes still, releasing Lydia as though she is diseased, dropping her, disgust curling his lip. He wipes his hands on his coat with a fastidious air.

"That is low, girl. Is it not enough that you whore, but you have to try and trap a man as well?"

"I do not lie. He came to me..."

Etienne slashes his arms in the air. "Enough! I am so close to giving you and your dowry to St. Anne's. One more word on Merrick and I shall do so." He runs a hand over his face, then through his hair, gaze falling onto me as though just noticing my presence. "And you, wife. Did you know? Did you help her? Did you arrange a tryst for her as you did for Jocelyn?"

Slowly, I release the chair. My hands are shaking from the tight grip I had employed on the wood. Getting to my feet, I step around it, stopping far enough away from him that he will have to walk away from Lydia to reach me. "How dare you."

"I dare much. Do _you_? Do you dare to make a whore of my sister?"

"Your sister is responsible for her own actions, Etienne. I did not know this until today." I hear Lydia groan, but forge on. "I do nothing but try and be a good wife to you. Only a couple months into marriage and you accuse me?" Shaking my head, I sweep by him and leave. As I walk down the hallway, astonished he has not followed me, I hear him start in again on Lydia. I cannot help her.

The hours pass and I find myself going into our chamber to speak to him. It is not that I want to have conversation with him. No, I would rather not. Yet for Lydia, I feel I must broach the subject. I hope Etienne has calmed. I have no wish to be railed at. He is writing letters at the table and looks up as I approach. I can still see the anger on his face, but it is fading, so I sit across from him. "Do you have a few moments to talk?" I ask as gently as possible.

Etienne glances away from me, then back. "On what?"

"On Lydia. Do you plan to speak with this Merrick?"

A muscle on his jaw twitches, as does his left eye. "No."

"Why not? Perhaps Lydia speaks the truth. Maybe this Merrick..."

"Lydia lies, Christiana. She is good at it and does so without the slightest thought to what could happen. She is lying now. Merrick has duties he would not leave just to meet with her. He has two children from his first wife that need care and an estate that is larger than this one to run. He would not seek out Lydia." He sets the pen down beside the ink container. "I plan to find an eligible man who will not be able to tell if she is a virgin. Specifically, a man my grandfather's age who is not in good health and will likely need help performing his husbandly duties."

"You would marry her to someone like that? Your own sister?"

"If Lydia had not whored, she could have been wed to any number of young men closer her age. Her actions change the course of her life considerably. Lydia will do her duty and marry who I tell her to." He says this in a mild, reasonable tone.

"She will do her duty like I did." I feel the weight of his unblinking hazel stare, the iciness of it boring into me. 

His reply is slow in coming, and when it does, the stress is on the word 'you'. "Yes. Like you did. You are a most dutiful woman, Christiana."

"And if a man such as...you...offered for her, uncaring of her ruined station, would you wed her to him, to someone rivaling your reputation?" I cannot help but ask this. I would know if he would make the same decision my father did.

"If his offer was good enough. But we're not talking of Lydia any longer are we?" He leans forward, crossing his arms on the tabletop. "Are you curious as to why I offered for you, Christiana? Is that bothering you?"

I nod. "Yes. You told her no man wants to marry a ruined girl. You thought me ruined and offered for me. I do not understand."

"Where was my benefit? Where was my gain?" His lips twitch. "I do nothing without a personal motive, yes?" 

I struggle to keep my emotions under lock and key. "What did you gain by marrying me, because I know my dowry was a poor one. I have wondered on this from the beginning and can find no logical answer."

"Your sisters have all produced boys." He throws out, a bone tossed to a yapping, annoying dog, for I see he is annoyed by my question, his eyes narrowing.

"You gamble on that. I could be the sole producer of girls out of all." I shrug my shoulders. "Is that all you gained, Etienne? A mother for your children?"

"Would you like to hear the truth, Christiana, as to what I have gained?" That voice snaps coldly. His stare bores into me and I shrink back into my seat. That hated, heartless gleam has come into his eyes. No, I do not want to hear this, but I cannot say no. I cannot speak at all. He gets up from his chair and comes around to me. "I have gained dominion over Jocelyn. I have her pain at your parting, her constant worry for you, and with it, Thatcher's helplessness." He takes my chin in his fingers, twisting my face cruelly this way and that. "I have gained a wicked wanton who knows just how to please me and will do so whenever I crook my finger."

I try and jerk back, but he places his free hand about my neck, holding me in place.

"Tell me what _you_ have gained, wife."

His fingers dig painfully into my flesh and I keep my mouth shut.

"_I_ will tell you what you have gained." Etienne thrusts me back, releasing me, my head hitting the high back of the chair just hard enough to hurt. "You have re-gained your station, left the life of a maid behind you. You have a home to run. You have a husband who pays you more attention in a month than your family has in your entire life. You have wealth and, God willing, you will soon have babies to occupy your time. Now, _dear wife_," he returns to his seat, "leave matters of my family to me as master here and keep to your own place as Lady of this manor." He takes up the pen and dips it into the ink. The pen scratches loud on the paper as he writes.

My face is flushed, I can feel the scorching heat of that blush across my cheeks, and my hands are clenched into tight, helpless fists in my lap. The back of my head hurts, the places his fingers gripped me throbbing. I want to cry, to scream, to beat at him in frustration. But I only sit still, barely drawing in breath, letting those sneering words sink in fully. 

Jocelyn. He still thinks of her. That is what he means. He has married me and still thinks of another woman. I had thought to come into my own as woman and wife, to be in the forefront of his thoughts as he has grown to be in mine. His attentions had led me to believe such. I had assumed I would not be just another woman he has bedded. That is not the case. I am his chosen wife; but chosen only for the reaction he can still pull from Jocelyn. I am second best and I _am_ just another woman in his bed. My fists uncurl and I twist the heavy ring about my finger. I am tempted to throw it at him, for I know it means nothing to him really. I do not though. 

He clears his throat. "Was there anything else, Christiana? I have too much work to do to ravish you right now, but I suppose I could spare a few minutes later."

I stand, the numbness I have not felt since our journey to this manor dropping over me as a heavy, weighted cloak, covering me. "You are hateful sometimes." I whisper, and walk on shaking legs to the door. He does not stop me.

~~~~~~~~~~

At first I thought I was hearing Lydia's voice asking that question, but then realization that it was not cracked at me like a whip strike on my back, cutting deep into my flesh and drawing blood. It was Christiana posing that gentle query. _Are you pregnant?_ She was asking that of Lydia. _Lydia_. My mind whirled at the words. My sister. My unmarried sister who should know better.

My sister has become a whore. A slut. The revelation of her actions flays the skin from my back. My own sister! I know I have been lax in my duties here at this manor, but have I been _that_ negligent? Had I been here, surely she would not have played at such games. She would not have dared. Or would she? She is woman, so she is treacherous, as I know women can be. Beatrice taught me that a long time ago. She taught me that a woman can claim one thing and be another, that faithfulness is fleeting, and that a woman is not happy unless she is tempting some man to come to her. That trait of treachery lies within Lydia's breast, as it does with every woman, even Christiana. No, it is slumbering in Lydia no longer, awakened by that lusting of a woman to have a man helpless and clasped to her breast.

What man here has she made weak from his craving for her? I look to my men, those who have stayed at the manor and cannot decide the likely one. I do not believe any would chance my wrath, but then I know well how that craving for a woman can make a man do things he would not consider under normal circumstances. I myself have been prey for that demon lust. I cannot accuse any man without cause or I shall have tension among my troops. I have cause, but no specific idea of the man.

For her to claim Merrick as her lover astounds me. I do not honestly see Merrick throwing away his duties and coming here to meet with her in secret. It is more like the Merrick I know to ride in here while I am in residence, toss Lydia over his horse in full view of all, announce his intentions and ride off with her. He would not sneak about. He would be up front with me if he desired her. And yet....It all goes back to the demon lust and however deep the talons of that creature have pierced the flesh.

I cannot claim in all certainty that Merrick did not come here and meet Lydia in secret. It is a slim possibility that he was hesitant to be up front with only my grandfather and mother here. I cannot dismiss her claims outright. Her story did not change at all. She never wavered from her claim. Lydia insists Merrick wants her.

I told Christiana I will not talk to Merrick, but I have made myself a liar. I have penned a neutral letter to him regarding Lydia and her claims. If she is telling the truth, by any chance of fate, and he does want her, the letter will open channels for further discussion on the matter. If she is lying, then Lydia shall have to bear the embarrassment of her lie when she sees him next. I have also penned several letters of excuses to various men on the issue of my dear, whoring sister, something that twists my gut to do. I was very close to an agreement to one, a young knight I met at Tournament. To have to put that alliance aside is a bitter gall in my throat.

And Christiana, my beauteous wife. I accused her of having a hand in Lydia's trysts, knowing full well she could not have done so. The words just fell from my lips, like I was not controlling what emerged. All I could think of was her hand in Jocelyn's elicit meetings with Thatcher. I thought of that and Jocelyn became Lydia, then Thatcher's features became blurred, a faceless man having at my sister with Christiana standing at the side. I lashed out at her.

She came to see me later, wanting to speak on Lydia and Merrick. Somehow, the conversation turned to us and what I had gained from our union. Still incensed from earlier, I gave her a lie. I opened my mouth in anger and that lie spilled forth with great ease, as my accusation in Lydia's chamber had. I think that even if I had tried to list all the things I have honestly gained from marrying her I would have choked on the admission. No, the lie was easier.

And when I had finished hurling those words at her and returned to my seat, I happened to glance up from the paper. The gleam that had blossomed in her eyes upon our marriage day died as I watched. It _died_. It withered in slow degrees until a despairing emptiness replaced it. Something twisted hard in my chest and I lowered my eyes a moment before saying those last words, designed to get her from me as quickly as possible. I do not think I can forget the pain that I saw on her face.

She does not come down for the evening meal and I eat alone with my men. Sarah is tending to her I presume and Lydia is confined to her chamber. I am not surprised to find that Christiana refuses to come down from our chamber at all. A tray is sent up to her.

What do I do? I have no experience with a wife. Lovers, yes. Lovers are easy to handle. A trinket and most women are forgiving of any offense. But a wife? I wife is, by definition, quite different. There is a rift between us now, and instinct tells me I must fix it somehow. But how? I head for my grandfather's chamber. If any can help me, it is he. The man outlived four wives. If he has no counsel for me, I do not know what to do.

He is at his table when his servant lets me in, several large books piled about him. They are all musty things, the room holding that peculiar papery smell monasteries have. He leans back. "Finally coming to me for advice, Etienne? In over your head?"

I sit in the chair across from him and stretch my legs out. "How much did you already know about Lydia?"

A smirk crosses his lips and he strokes his white beard. "You should have come here the first day you returned. I could have informed you better than your mother."

"You taunted me. I saw no reason to see you after that."

"I teased. There is a difference. If I had been taunting you, I would have made verbal reference instead of letting you figure out the limp on your own. As to Lydia, let her pout in her chamber for awhile. Then discover the truth of the matter."

"You are not going to tell me either? You and mother. What do you both have against me of late?"

His smirk fades, a hard light glittering in his gaze. "You are an arrogant pup who has neglected his duties far too long. I will let this house fall to ruin to teach you that you cannot run from your duties."

I blink and shake my head. "I do not run from my duties. Edward needed the Free Companies--"

"Does he need them now? He is embroiled in bigger conquest than previously. Has he called you back into service, Etienne? Or does he let you sit here and pine for battle? There is a time for battle and a time to let it pass you by. You _can_ be both Count and soldier, but both must be balanced. You are not balanced. You have spent months at battle and months at Tournament and little time here." He glances about his chamber, nodding his head as though considering some weighty matter. "Yes, I shall let this manor fall to ruin, this family be torn asunder, just to teach you your place."

It has been a very long time since my grandfather has spoken to me thus, and it is never a pleasant experience. I stare at him. "I know my duties."

"Then perform them. Deal with Lydia. Do so straight away. Then deal with your mother." I frown at that. Why should I need to deal with Mother? "If you cannot see that your mother is unhappy here, then you are an idiot and you might as well stay here just long enough to get your wife with child, then ride off into battle and get yourself killed as quickly as possible. It would be no large feat running the estates upon your death, as it is what we have been doing all along, and we shall be better off without your idiocy among us."

My teeth grind together to keep from giving free reign to my feelings at this reprimand. "What should I do about mother?"

"Talk to her. Ask her what she would prefer to do since you now have a wife in residence to manage this house. And as for your pretty little wife, talk with her as well. Think of your marriage as a battle where you must navigate yourself with utmost care. A wife requires much more than a lover or mistress, Etienne. A wife must be talked to, cuddled and cared for, her opinion sought whether you truly want it or not. You must give compliments to keep her complacent, and not the sort of backhanded remarks you have offered to Christiana. If you like how she looks, tell her, but do not add anything on how she could be better." He snorts and drags a book over to him. "Lastly, you cannot tell a woman you think of another woman other than her in any way, whether it is a roundabout admission or said plain. That error is a stupid, tactical one that I had thought you better of."

"And how do you know what has been said between Christiana and myself?" I ask, sitting up and leaning forward.

"You think you have privacy, Etienne? I could tell you many things that would embarrass you greatly. There is no such thing as privacy here. Now go. Tell your wife you did not mean what you said. Blame it all on temper. She will not doubt that."

I am dismissed, knowing little more than when I came here. He wants me to talk to Christiana. Okay. I shall do so. I go to our chamber, intending to speak to her, but upon arriving there, I find her already asleep. Once more she has the blankets rolled about her. Kneeling by her side of the bed, I rest my arms on the edge and my cheek on my arms. There are reddish streaks on the pale smoothness of her cheeks, the marks of tears. Her breath hitches with the last remnants of her crying. I suspect she has only just fallen asleep. Should I wait until morning? Should I wait to attempt to close the rift?

I stretch my fingers out and draw them back. Not now. Let her sleep. Getting up, I find another blanket, remove my clothes and blow out the candles. I will find her tomorrow. She should have calmed by then.

Morning comes and goes and I approach the solar, where Christiana has closeted herself. I intend on finding some way to ease the tension from my lie.

She glances up as I stop in the doorway and does not even set aside her sewing. "My Lord?" She asks sweetly, though her face is not set in an agreeable expression. There is a peculiar nasal quality to her voice that betrays just how much she has cried. Her needle jabs viciously into the fabric and I cannot help but think that she is wishing the fabric was my skin.

"You are upset."

Christiana's lips tighten and she gives a curt nod. "You are astute, my Lord." Tying the thread into a knot, she leans down and bites the tail end off.

I stride to her, dragging a chair near and sitting. "Tell me." I would take my grandfather's advice, but am not good at gentle discourse. 

She gives a scoffing laugh. "You do not want to know. You do not care."

"According to who?" I query, tilting my head a bit. I take it as a good sign that she is speaking plain and not trying to hide everything within her. 

She glances at me. "According to yourself. You care what Jocelyn feels, my Lord, _not_ me."

I look around the room, more than a little out of sorts. "_You_ are my wife Christiana, not her. That is what matters, not the reason for marrying you or what I may or may not have gained."

"It does matter. It matters to me. I had actually thought I was not considered second best and then to find out that I really am...." She places the cloth beside her and turns her head, but not before I see the tears that escape her eyes. 

What in the hell do I do now? Damn it all, she is crying! Reaching out, I tuck her hair behind her ear, then touch her cheek, wiping away some of those hot tears. "I do consider myself blessed for wedding you, Christiana. You are more than a bedmate." She rolls her eyes. "You put up with my family, you are running the household...." I sit back and cross my arms. "You are my wife." The word, to me, explains it all. Wife. "You are the Lady of this manor."

She stares at me a long moment, sniffling and wiping her cheeks. "Are you trying to say that you are sorry?"

I do not answer her directly. "I should not have let my anger rule me. It is a problem I have occasionally. I would have thought you would know that by now. I spoke in anger and did not think before I said those words." There. I have followed grandfather's counsel.

Another minute goes by as she stares at me, then nods. "I accept your apology."

Thank God. "I have not apologized, Christiana." 

"Of course not, my Lord." She chews her lip a moment. "Did you mean that? That I am Lady?" There is a stress to the word and I realize she puts as much meaning into it as I put into 'wife'.

"Yes. I _do_ want you Christiana. How can you not know that?"

The tiniest of smiles is turning her lips, that light I had thought dead returning in wary degrees to her eyes. The tightness in my chest eases somewhat and I realize, with a jolt, that I have missed her half smiles and fond glances, those looks of hers that leave me with little doubt as to where her thoughts are straying. _And it was only one day without them_. What is happening to me?

"My Lord?" I ask with raised brows. She has not called me that so many times in a row since our journey here last fall.

She blushes just a bit, rosy coloring creeping across her cheeks. "Eteinne." I like that added bit of color.

I hold out a hand to her. "Come here." After a moment, she places her smaller hand within mine and I give a tug to urge her from her chair and onto my lap. Her weight is slight on my leg. I study her, a surge of possessiveness washing over me. This woman is mine. "You are mine now. I do not give up what is mine without a fight. And that is the way of it. You are mine. Any man who tries to take you from me will die. Remember that."

She nods, her hair a weight along my arm. I give her a kiss and let her go to her seat. I also have things to do. At the door, I glance back at her. She has already returned to her sewing. That possessiveness grows stronger as I watch her, an overwhelming sensation that fills my entire body.

I feel an icy trickle of something at the back of my neck, like little talons scraping gently along the skin, and a barely there weight along my shoulders. A tiny voice whispers in sly susurrus, "Yes, any man who dares try and take her will die. And if she encourages him, then _she_ shall die as well."

Shaking my head, I dismiss the disturbing thought and go about my duties.


	15. All Visits Forbidden

Title: All Visits Forbidden

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Jocelyn receives a distressing letter from Christiana.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: Managed to sneak in an update instead of having to wait until next week.

~~~~~~~~~~

'_Dearest Jocelyn,_

I am bruised and I am aching. Please keep this letter to yourself. I could not bear for any but you to know of these things I must say. I am held fast in a pit of despair at this moment and there are none to give me encouraging words."

I am glad I did not save this letter to read to all. I am glad I was the only one in the hall when the messenger came. My heart beats with painful thuds in my breast. Why does she despair? Please God, do not let him have hurt her! 

"_I am trying not to let it show how much he has hurt me with his words. It all started with Lydia. As you know, she has been running from me and I discovered the reason. She had a lover and thought I knew. She had been afraid I would go to Etienne. Well, she had no fear of him finding out from me, for he heard it from her own lips. He had come to see her, as she was feeling poorly, and overheard some of our conversation. He charged in, railed at her, then turned upon me, accusing me of making her into a whore, of arranging a tryst for her as I did for you. **As I did for you**. You! That action is lashing out at me, Jocelyn! My part in your relationship with Will is now causing tension between me and my husband!' _

My stomach turns and I feel decidedly ill. That a meeting arranged by her for my benefit could cause her pain in turn causes me pain. Oh Christiana, if I had known you would suffer from it, I would have arranged that meeting myself. I glance at the door into the hallway. I hear voices and hurry in my reading. This is a letter I do not want to share if i do not have to.

"_I went to him earlier today, fool I was, and we ended up discussing what he gained in marrying me. Your pain. That was his main gain. He gained **your** pain, **your** worry, and Will's helplessness. **You**, Jocelyn. His gain was something about **you**. He has married me and still he thinks of you._ _A secondary gain and only secondary was a 'wicked wanton' as he called me, a woman who will go to him whenever he wants. He does not see me as a wife. He sees me as only one more woman to bed. That revelation would be much easier to bear had he simply stolen me away and kept me locked in his chamber, a mistress in title instead of that title of wife. It would not bother me then, for I would not have the regret of giving my tender heart to him. My place would be clear and I would not have been so foolish as to let myself begin to love him. My heart is in his palms, dear friend, and he can crush me or complete me at whim. The only saving grace is that he does not know it.' _

Tears course down my face and I cannot help but damn the man once more to an eternal hell of flames, with fiery devils pricking his skin and making him bleed eternally. Does he not know how much his admission has wounded her? Or does he just not care? My hands shake and I must wait until the trembling stops to read some more.

"_I had thought he wanted me. Evidence pointed to that conclusion. All evidence. But it turns out that you were all he was thinking of. **You**. He kept you in his thoughts, alive there for him, a phantom to imagine when he is with me. Forgive me friend, but it is a bitter thing to swallow. I know that it is not your fault. You cannot help being beautiful. You cannot help but inspire poetry in men."_

"Jocelyn?"

I start at the voice that intrudes upon my reading, clasping the letter to my breast. Kate is in the doorway, her shrewd glance going over me. "What?" There is an obvious tremor in my voice.

She crosses the room, tugging the paper from me and glancing at it. I know she cannot read, but she peruses it anyway, looking at it line by line. "It is a letter, yes?" I can only nod. "And not good news I would wager, the way you are crying." She returns it to me.

"No, not good news."

Kate brushes her skirts off and takes the chair beside mine, resting her arms on her thighs and clasping her hands together. "Tell me. What has Adhemar done to her? I assume it is from Christiana. Her letters are the only ones that make you so emotional."

My eyes ache with more tears and I do not hold them back. "He has told her in not so many words that he married her only for my reaction. She despairs because of it. She thinks he imagines me when he is with her." I do not wipe my face or attempt in any way to stem the flood.

Kate gives a low whistle. "Here I had not thought Adhemar a dumb male before."

"He is hateful. This seals it. Nothing can redeem that man. How can he treat her this way? How can he pretend to want her and then tell her that?" I raise my hand and chew on my thumbnail, a bad habit I have not done in years. "I must see her. The journey there is a short one, only a couple days."

Kate sits up. Her glance lowers to my stomach, then returns to my face as she shakes her head, an apologetic turn to her lips. "No. Not in your condition. You will not foolishly put yourself in Adhemar's path. If you go there and make Adhemar angry...." Kate trails off. "No. You know Will is going to tell you no, Jocelyn. Do not even entertain the thought of traveling to visit her."

I lower my hand, wiping my thumb on my skirt. "I am pregnant, Kate, not breakable. I have to see her. I have to know she is well. I promise I will not endanger the baby."

"You cannot know for sure what will happen if you try and see her, can you? Do not promise, Jocelyn. You are still very early in it. I have seen women miscarry from a blow to the stomach and would not see the same happen to you."

I give an impatient sigh and roll of my eyes. "Then during Tournament then, if only for a moment."

"Tournament is months away." She reminds me and I make helpless noises in the back of my throat.

"Then what would you have me do, Kate? I cannot go see her now and Tournament does not begin until April. What does that leave me?"

She focuses a pointed stare at the letter. "Write to her. Let her know you are still here for her. If he has upset her that much, then she needs the assurance that there is a friend somewhere who is understanding. With his announcement, your arrival on their doorstep could cause more problems then are solved."

I set the papers aside and rub my hands over my slightly swelling belly. It seemed that I started showing the very moment I realized I was pregnant. Three months gone and my tight waist-ed dresses are almost too tight. Will was certainly pleased at the news, jumping about our chamber giving great whoops of joy. He will not let me lift anything heavy and treats me like I am the most delicate of women. Coming from him, I do not mind, but that manner will work against me now. If I were not pregnant, there was a chance he would let us go and camp on the edge of Adhemar's property. But I am pregnant and that is not going to happen.

Kate is right though. As much as I hate to think about it, my arrival could cause more problems. "I will write to her then." Still, it would hurt nothing to ask Will if we could go.

"Good." She smiles a little.

"You came to find me?" I change the subject. Kate does not usually come into the manor in the middle of the day.

"Well..." Her smile grows wide. "I have got an apprentice! This day. Burrell brought his son to me, wants me to train him."

This is wonderful news. It is wonderful in a couple ways. First, it means that Kate is fully accepted by the people here. If Burrell has brought Paul to her, then Kate is well liked, for Burrell is the 'voice' of the people. Second, it means her status in the Guild is not disputed. She explained to me once about widows and the Guild. A widow can continue to run her dead husband's business and work the trade. She can have an apprentice if she chooses. All of this however, can hinge largely on the Guild and whether they choose to dispute her membership for some reason. Kate has been careful with her dealings with them of late.

"Congratulations, Kate!" I pull her into a hug, ignoring the soot that marks the contact on my clothes. "That is marvelous news. Oh, I am so happy for you."

"Thank you." She draws back. "I wanted to also ask if I could have a small room added to my cottage in the back. Paul needs lodgings. It is part of me responsibility as his Master to house him. I could not find Will to ask him."

"Of course. I do not think Will would deny you that."

Kate stands. "I have to get back. I sent Paul on an errand and he should return soon."

Once she has gone and I have been forced into a better mood by her news, I pick up the letter again and read. I frown a bit. It reads as though Christiana quit writing and came back later to finish the letter.

'_He has apologized, but I do not fully believe him. He says he was just angry, that he lost his temper and, while I believe that, I do not think he meant all of his apology. He has called me his Lady and his wife and that is fine with me, for in title it is what I am. He did not apologize for thinking of you. I gave him my best 'all is forgiven' expression and I do try and forgive him. _

It is difficult though. I force myself to behave as I did before his words last week. I suppose if I behave this way long enough, I can convince myself that everything is fine, that I did not goad him into admitting his thoughts to me. I should not have pushed the issue. I should have been satisfied thinking he truly wanted me. And now, I pay for that insistence. Sometimes getting what you want is a hell in itself. The truth is not always what you want to hear. So, I will do my duty, as I came to him willingly to do. I will be a good wife, despite his ways. I will be faithful, in body, mind and soul, though I could wither in the end from lack of love. I will give him children and perhaps they will give me love enough. I will run his household and mend his ills. He shall have no cause to be angry with me and, maybe some day, he will think of me.'

I am right. She quit writing and instead of beginning a fresh letter, she added on to the one she had begun.

'I am not allowed to see Lydia, though she has asked to have me visit her. Sarah has nursed her through the last of that illness she suffered. Lydia is confined to her chambers, sentenced there until he can decide what to do with her. Jocelyn, I do wish you were here, just for the support I know you would give me, but he will not allow a visit, I know without asking, and truth be told, I would be hesitant to have you in his sight right now, with all this freshly laid out. I will content myself with letters, frequent letters if you can manage to send them.

I know this letter is short, but I shall try and calm myself enough to write more rationally in the next. Love, Christiana.' 

Getting up, I find my cloak and fasten it around me before heading outside. The January air is cold and bracing and I draw the cloak tighter to me. The courtyard is a flurry of activity, people scurrying about on errands and their normal jobs. My eyes have been opened by Will and his friends and I endeavor to learn the names of all here and personal things I can ask them about, such as their children or favorite game. As I walk, greetings are called to me and I return them with a smile to each. My path eventually takes me to the stable, where Will has been spending much time this winter, pampering that horse he won off of Adhemar. It is funny to me that Adhemar did not even attempt to buy the animal back. I would have thought he would pay a king's ransom to have the animal back.

"Will?" I cross the stable to him. He is finishing up, putting things away. I admire the new clothes that grace his tall form, the cut displaying his manliness beautifully. Rags or riches, he looks good in either.

"Yes?" He gives the steed one last pat and turns, waiting for me to continue, his gaze as hungry in perusing me as mine was to him. Our love has not waned over the months. If possible, I love him more with each passing hour.

"I want to visit Christiana." I say, clasping my hands together. I can almost predict the conversation that is coming for we have had this conversation several times over the past weeks.

That hungry glint turns to annoyance. Will puts his hands on his hips and lowers his head, looking at me now through the blond locks that tumble down over his eyes, an adorable attempt to look stern. "And what has Adhemar told Christiana? Has he approved a visit? Has she even asked?" When I only stare at him, he throws his head back to stare at the ceiling of the stable. "Jocelyn?" He prompts in warning tone.

I swallow, lick my lips and shake my head, taking my time doing all three. "He has said no."

"Then I say no as well." Will's gaze finds mine again. "He has the right to say who may visit his house. Look," He crosses to me, runs his warm hands along my arms, "I know Christiana is like a sister to you--"

"He told her outright that he only married her for my reaction, that he thinks of me still."

His hands tighten on my arms a fraction, a frown bringing his brows down in a 'v'. "And you want to go there do you?"

"She is hurting, Will." I place my hands on his chest, fingers splayed out.

"So let her hurt!" He says in a muted roar. I am shoved away, a gentle shove, but a shove nonetheless. "Damn it all Jocelyn, your family kept the two of you sheltered from so much unpleasantness it is good for the both of you to actually see that the world is not a kind place! You are both adult, both married. Christiana _chose_ to go to him." He shakes his head. "She made the choice to marry Adhemar for better or worse, knowing what he did to me and knowing the sort of man he is. She made a choice and now she must deal with the consequences of that choice. _Her_. Not you."

I am crying again, what he has said true, tears overflowing my eyes and slipping down my face. Part of my tears are from our discussion, part from the babe that makes me weepy. "I cannot stand by while she is in pain. My heart cries out to help her."

His face softens. "I sympathize, I truly do. But we cannot ride in there and rescue her. Christiana is Adhemar's wife. Any troubles between them must be worked out between them. You _will_ stand by, Jocelyn. If, at some point, there is a genuine need for intervention, I suppose we can do so, but I will not get right in the middle of that man's marriage. If not for Christiana, I would have nothing more to do with him."

"And yet you seem so understanding of him, of what you call his 'rights'. Have you forgotten what he did?" In a sense, I feel a bit betrayed by Will's manner. Does he not hate the man? After all that happened, he can talk of Adhemar's rights? I wipe at my tears.

"I do understand his view, Jocelyn."

"I thought you hated him." My voice has gotten louder and louder with each sentence I utter, while Will has remained calm and collected. Our past chats on this matter have given him poise.

A strange expression crosses Will's face, one I cannot fathom. His brows raise just a fraction. "Oh, I do hate him. I hate him for his sarcasm and his smug, condescending manner. I hate him for forcing me to come out of my made-up name before I was ready to do so and endure the humiliation of being in stocks and in the goal. I do hate him, Jocelyn, but...." He sighs. "I am also thankful to him for making me be myself and no other. Without the humiliation he caused me, I would not be the man I am today. Those things cancel each other out and I am left on neutral ground regarding him."

"He is a beast, a murdering..." I flounder for a strong enough word to describe Adhemar. "cur!"

"I am very much alive. He did not succeed. If he had, you would likely be in Christiana's place right now."

"Still!" I throw up my hands with the word and he takes them in his, twining his fingers with mine.

"The answer is no, my love. You will have to wait until Tournament to see her. We have too much to do here before we leave and I cannot spare the time to run off and visit her." Leaning down, he brushes his nose to mine in a playful gesture. "And do not think you can sneak off, either."

"I could." I do not plan to though.

"I know you are fully capable of doing whatever you choose with or without my leave to do so. Please, do not run off to see her by yourself. I would die if anything happened to you." His hands release mine and move to cup my face.

He kisses me and, with our mouths but a few inches apart, I give a promise to wait.

And so it is final. I will hold my breath, so to speak, until Tournament and see her in the galley there. God protect her.


	16. A Puzzling Turn

Title: A Puzzling Turn

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar's behavior bewilders Christiana. 

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews. Your comments are greatly appreciated.

~~~~~~~~~~

I have timed finishing the embroidery on both shirt and coat perfectly. Etienne's birthday is tomorrow and both shall be a lovely gift for him in the morning when we rise. I look forward to seeing him in them. I have been planning a special banquet for him tomorrow night, my first banquet by myself. Patrice has pronounced me ready to perform all duties as Lady of the manor without her assistance. I am a bit nervous, but she assures me I am doing a fine job.

Lydia is not in residence. Etienne has packed her off to St. Anne's to stay with Adele for a couple months. He sweetened her stay at the convent by supplying the good sisters with a large sum of monies. Lydia shall be relatively comfortable, albeit rather bored in my opinion. She shall have little to occupy her mind but prayer, some embroidery and a few menial tasks put to her by the sisters. The convent is a suitable threat for Lydia. She went kicking and screaming -- literally doing so, giving one of Etienne's men a black eye -- and has not sent a kind letter back to Etienne since her arrival there. Her letters to me are the sort of tentative overtures of friendship I am happy to see at last from her.

No more has been said of Lydia marrying and my husband has not confided his thoughts on the matter to me. I suppose it shall eventually be settled, but I do not share his belief that Lydia will do her duty without comment. He should know better. Although....Lydia is still carrying a fear of him from that day. I cannot honestly predict what will occur. 

I have not only planned Etienne's birthday, I am also planning the household to cope in our absence. Tournament will begin in a month and a half and I am to accompany my husband there. He wants me with him, at his side at all times.

This lavish attention of late is bewildering, I must admit, calling to mind the interest he showed me on our wedding day. Ever since that day with Lydia just after Christmas, he has become almost too attentive, if there can be such a thing. He has become...jealous. Yes, that is the word I want. Jealous. He had not been such since realizing I was a virgin. He quit asking for Roland's name and I had thought the jealousy gone. It is becoming painfully obvious that his jealousy is _growing_ as well, for whenever I speak to a man, he demands to know what was said and threatens each man with physical violence. He has several of the men deathly afraid of him from this. It is making running the household an interesting endeavor, Sarah acting as my go-between to the men I must deal with, such as the steward. 

What is baffling is not the attention exactly. I can reason that away as him feeling some guilt for his admission. He thinks if he pays quite a bit of attention to me, I shall forget what he said. His jealousy is a part of that as well. He does consider me his property. Everyone must know that I am his property. There shall be no doubts among any man that I am his. No, the puzzling thing is the feeling I have that something is still not fully right between us. Something is just slightly off. Some truth has not been spoken that needs to be put to light. I do not know what that truth could be.

I have come to terms with the fact that he will likely never love me; that his affections remain Jocelyn's first. I am fine with it now. Many marriages are like this. Love is a fluke. Marriage, by and large, is a contract undertaken by two people for the good of their families. Love does not usually enter in to the picture. I walked into this knowing full well I was doing a duty. I should not have forgotten that. As Etienne did point out, _I_ am his wife, not Jocelyn. I am the one who is here, the one who will have his children. By that alone, he would think of me on occasion. I have forgiven him for his thoughtless words. It took me a long while, but I have forgiven him. He is not a man who apologizes for anything, yet he came to me with one on his lips. That is something, some slight softening of him to me.

I am hoping that those brutal Tournament games will suffice to work out what troubles him. He can beat up all the opponents he likes under the guise of competition. I am looking forward to seeing Jocelyn again, but suspect that we shall not be able to indulge ourselves in long heart-to-heart talks. Etienne is resistant to any meeting of me with Jocelyn. I must remind myself that it is another way for him to yank Jocelyn's emotions about and get a reaction. It is a control issue. I will think of it in that term: control. He needs control of things like I need affection in my life. To not have it is frightening.

"My Lady Christiana?" Germaine's soft voice intrudes upon my thoughts and I look up from my contemplation of the fire. He brings a roll of parchment to me. "Lady Jocelyn's messenger just brought this."

"Thank you." I take it and sit in the nearest chair, unrolling the letter to read it. He does not stay to see if I shall send a response, for by now he knows I shall let him know when I have one ready. Germaine learns quickly how things are done, which is why, I suppose, he has become so indispensable to Etienne. He is very good at all the functions he performs in the household, including those duties that are not actually those of Herald. Indeed, when he spoke to me a long while back of being a confidant to Etienne, he was being modest. He is a friend to Etienne as I am a friend to Jocelyn, only he stays firmly back in his place, behind what is correct. It is a strange friendship they share, but one nonetheless.

'_Dear Christiana,_

Geoffrey Chaucer has blessed us most thoroughly since taking his leave of us last fall as you did. He found a new herald for Will. His letters on that process of interviewing have been hysterically humorous accounts of men he dubs 'complete and utter imbeciles, the whole lot.' He claimed he was certain there 'must be a somewhat redeemable fellow among the throng of pompous, preening idiots' and proceeded to find us one that is up to his standards. His name is Stephen and he does not quite have Geoff's droll sense of humor, but we like him. He is a studious young man and eager to begin his job in earnest once Tournament begins.

Geoff has also sent us a steward, since we were lacking a good one, a gentleman of his acquaintance whom he says does not share his 'single sad affliction that caused so many miserable days of naked trudging.' That puzzled me until Will enlightened me. Our dear friend Geoffrey likes to gamble on occasion. Unfortunately, he loses quite a bit. His clothes go to pay his debts. Anyway, Geoff is fine and sends his greetings to you through us. 

I am four months along now and seem to be in perfect health.'

"Christiana?"

I glance up and see Etienne a few feet away. His clothes are disheveled and ripped in places. He motions to me, holding his left side. "I need you." 

Rolling the letter, I go to him. "What's wrong?"

"I need you to work out a...knot."

I follow him to our chamber, placing the letter on the table and waiting for him to take off his coat and shirt. He does so slowly, wincing and hissing in a dramatic fashion that would shame his mother's dramatics were she to hear him. When they are dropped, I see a nasty bruise darkening his ribs. I do not wait for him to get on our bed, but rather I cross to him, gingerly touching my fingertips to the spot. "A knot?" I query, doubt in my voice. "This looks more like a bruise to me."

The corners of his mouth twitch, satisfaction glittering in his eyes. "It _is_ a bruise."

"Hmm." I frown up at him. Sometimes he is just a little bit too pleased to be injured. It makes me wonder why he has not cheerfully gotten himself killed before now with his casual attitude to wounds. I cast my eyes to that bruise and study the place. By the looks of it, I would guess he got it early this morning, as it is blossoming in beautiful shades of purple, from light lilac to almost black. "Is anything broken?"

"The man's nose who did it."

"I mean on you."

"And his ribs and an arm. He was the biggest of those latest brutes I added to my men. I made him cry from the pain."

I make an exasperated noise. "Etienne, is anything broken on _you_? I could care less about your opponent."

"No. Nothing is broken." He brushes my fingers aside and strips all of his clothes off, leaving them in a pile on the floor. "I just need your gentle touch to soothe away the stress of the day." Etienne climbs on our bed, giving me an imploring gaze. "I _do_ have knots that need worked out."

As I slip off my shoes and step to the bed, our door opens. I turn my head to see Sarah frozen in the doorway, her arms filled with the last of the surcoats Patrice had me measured for. Her mouth forms a tiny 'o', her eyes widening as she first sees Etienne laying there naked, then me fully dressed. Her entire face turns bright red and she turns and runs. I am a bit embarrassed. Poor Sarah. I guess I should have barred the door straight away. I do so now and lean my back against it when I am done. Etienne's amused chuckles pull a giggle from me before I can stop it.

"Poor Sarah." I saunter to the bed and join him, kneeling beside him on the mattress. He is chuckling and wincing at the same time, hand again on the bruised place. "You think it is funny?"

"It _is_ funny. She looked scared to death and I was not even yelling at her."

I give him a chiding look and slide my hand slowly along his back, urging him to roll onto his stomach. "I doubt she has seen a naked man before."

"Not _my_ problem."

"Etienne."

"Well, it isn't." He says reasonably, rolling over for me and resting his head on his folded arms.

I straddle him, my skirts covering his legs, and begin to press my hands along the flesh of his back, searching for the knots he claimed to have. I deal with one on his shoulder blade and slide my hands further down his back, finally discovering a mass of knots all along his lower back. Now I understand why he stripped naked. I could not have reached them well with his breeches on. They yield quickly under my fingers, Etienne giving a relieved groan as the last one relaxes. I move from him, but before I can move away, he catches my wrist, yanking me down beside him.

"My birthday is tomorrow." He says simply, undoing the fastening of my surcoat, spreading the fabric and leaning down to rest his cheek against my breast. His face is warm through my dress. I glide my fingers across the sculpted plane of his cheekbone.

"I know."

"You have been working on something for me." He is determined I shall tell him what I plan to give him. It is my fault that he knows I have a gift for him. I let it slip last week, rather unintentionally.

"You want it now?"

"Yes." Etienne sits up, hand sliding over my stomach in tiny circles. "You see it my way. Where is it?"

I laugh. "What makes you think I am going to give it to you a day early?"

He glances at the canopy top, considering my question. "Well, I was born just after midnight and that is only a few hours from now. It is not a day early."

"Just half a day." I am happy to see him light hearted, even playful, something I am seeing for the first time today. I decide to give him his gift. His mood makes this a special occasion. "Very well. You have to let me up though." He does so with an expectant gaze, hands raising so I am not held there on the bed before him.

I have hidden it in plain sight, his gift. On a bench near the window, I keep a pile of embroidery, projects I have started or plan to start soon, each cloth folded, with the colored silks in the middle of the fold to keep them together. I go to the pile, refastening my surcoat as I go, and lift the pile up, setting aside the top cloths. In the center of the stack, are the shirt and coat I have made and embroidered for him. Taking them up, I go to our bed and set them on the mattress.

Etienne picks them up, studies them with the same concentration he studies an opponent with. "You have been working on these. I have seen you."

The embroidery has been precisely placed on the shirt neck so that when the coat is over it, the embroidery on the shirt shall be displayed. I have also embroidered vines and leaves along the collar, hem and cuffs of the coat. As he holds the shirt up to him, I am pleased to see I was right. The color is perfect for him. I sit beside him, waiting for some comment or facial expression so that I know he likes my gift.

His hand slips behind my neck, pulling me close, his mouth covering mine in a gentle, brief kiss. "Thank you, Christiana. The needle work is beautiful."

"You wear black so often, I wanted to see you in another color."

He considers me, fingering the cloth. "Is there more of this cloth?"

I nod. There is still a bolt of it in the storeroom. Patrice had bought it with the intent of making dresses for herself, Adele and Lydia, but the death of Etienne's father Philippe had stalled the project. She had been happy to let me use the fabric. "There is quite a bit."

"Good. Make a dress and surcoat for yourself, or have it done for you. I wish us to match."

I do not know what to say. He has never shown any interest in our clothes matching before. Style and color have not bothered him, just the fabric choice, and now he wishes us to match? Confused, I give another nod as I slip from the bed to pick up his discarded breeches. "Will you try them on?"

"Of course." As he dresses, he remarks, "You shall have to embroider the cloth yourself, you know. I do not think another could do such a fine job."

I stare at him, feeling a bit faint. What is the matter with him? Where has my husband gone? I have received two compliments in one day and neither was backhanded. He is agreeable, kind and playful. Is he drunk? He does not reek of liquor. This behavior is inconsistent with how he has been behaving towards me, conflicting with the jealous man who has been here. "Are you feeling okay, Etienne?"

"I feel fine."

The feeling that something is wrong creeps over me.

He glances at me over his shoulder as he pulls the coat on. There is a fleeting glimpse of something in those hazel orbs, but it disappears too quickly for me to decipher what. "Can I not give my wife a compliment?"

I make no comment, smoothing the cloth across his shoulders, back and chest. The measurements are perfect. He looks most handsome. Reaching up, I tousle his hair the way I prefer it, making sure a few locks tumble down his forehead. 

He arches a black brow at me. "Do I meet your approval, wife?"

Those eyes bore into mine and I sense a weight to his question, as though we are not just talking about how he looks in the new shirt and coat. "Yes." He continues to stare at me for a long moment, then turns and begins changing clothes.

"I will wear these later."

His playfulness has vanished, moodiness returned. I take Jocelyn's letter from the table and seek a quiet corner in which to finish it.

~~~~~~~~~~

She asks if I am well. I suppose I cannot claim to be ill. I do not suffer any physical malady, save those aches my opponent gave me this morning. No, what I suffer from is not an illness. I suffer from that weakness fear. There in my mind, is that minute fear that I am not supplying all she needs.

The unwelcome opinion of my grandfather is that if I do not unbend myself on certain matters, she _will_ look elsewhere. He has come out of his chambers enough times in the past weeks to tell me this, that I cannot think of anything else. The thought has been beat into my brain. My wife could stray. I will not allow her to do so. I will not allow that to happen.

I am setting my house in order. Lydia's fate shall be decided once Merrick returns from both burying his grandfather and seeing to his other lands. My mother is soon to retire to the lands my father set aside for her in the dower. She shall have full reign there and I shall bother myself with the running of them no more. As for my grandfather, he can go to one of our other houses and terrorize the servants there, thus giving me another house I do not need to look at so closely.

Christiana and I shall be alone here by summers end at the latest. I shall have no relatives looking over my shoulder regarding her, no unwelcome advice put forth to me almost daily on how to deal with her. I await that time with great impatience.


	17. Tournament: Part 1

Title: Tournament, Part 1

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Arrival and day one of the Tournament. 

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: This chapter was so long, I split it up. There are three POV in this chapter and three in the next. If it is confusing to anyone, please let me know.

~~~~~~~~~~

The first Tournament of the season has arrived. We find a spot to camp, the tents raised quickly as I watch. His men know the drill and are able to perform their duties without a thought as to what has to be done next. Germaine has gone to pre-register Etienne. He shall have to go back in the morning to affirm Etienne's participation. I am told that pre-registering will cut down on time. They are able to begin the games earlier in the day. Apparently, this is an improvement over the past years that has finally been implemented this year.

I am excited, unable to keep from smiling. This whole Tournament will be an entirely different experience for me from last year. Last year, Jocelyn and I were new to Tournament, sent in hopes that she might catch the eye of a man and finally land a husband satisfactory to her. I remember how excited we were to be there the first day, looking about with awe at everything. I imagine how bright our eyes must have been. By the second day, we were able to pull off a nonchalant attitude, and by the third, we were bored by the games. By then, it was the men themselves who interested us.

We would present cool faces to them in the galley, always polite responses to any enquiries. Then, in private, we would pick them apart and wonder various things about each. I cannot say we did not know of Etienne Adhemar before Germaine introduced him, for we did know of him. Like all the other men on the field, we had taken note of him and made giggling remarks in Jocelyn's chamber about him.

And now, I am here as his wife. There is a funny tremor in my belly as I recall some of the remarks we had made, those wonderings about the men as lovers. I have no need for speculation now. I have answers to those general wonderings we set forth from our lips.

An arm goes about my shoulders, my husband's voice in my ear. "Did you bring the dark blue?" Etienne asks, eyes narrowing as he spies two young pages struggling to carry his armor. He winces as they drop a piece, but Richard, his favorite squire, rushes over to take care of the matter, so he glances away, choosing to let the young man deal with the boys. This surprises me, but as his armor is his business, I do not give it another thought.

"Yours or mine?" We have not yet worn our matching attire and I had packed it, thinking that banquet would be an ideal place to show it off.

"Both." He turns us so that he does not have to watch the fiasco with his armor, confident in Richard's ability to handle it.

"Yes. They are in the trunks." I turn in his embrace and run my hand along his coat, smoothing it and picking off a loose thread I see. My other hand, I slip into the coat where it is parted, resting it lightly along his waist. The muscles are tense there, so I knead my fingers for a few seconds to relieve the tension.

A sigh escapes him, a fraction of stress easing from his face. "Good. There is a banquet tonight. It is the opening banquet, so any competitors here today have to attend. I had thought we could wear the blue."

I smile. "Blue is good. I like blue." His gaze strays about the camp site and it is obvious he wishes to be in the thick of the action of making camp. "I will be fine alone, Etienne. Go do what you must." Removing my hand from his waist, I place it behind his neck, applying a tiny bit of pressure. He takes the hint, bending to meet my kiss.

"Stay in the tent when it is ready." He says as he walks away.

I do not mind the order. I am ready for a rest after our journey.

~~~~~~~~~~

Christiana's work on my shirt and coat is truly beautiful. I have never indulged myself in embroidered clothes before. It always seemed such a shame for embroidery to be covered in the blood and muck one ends up in during war, so I had kept my clothes free of adornment. I study the stitches of the leaves on the coat hem, tiny detail worked in a silvery light green. The shades of the greens she used are only slight in their difference, but enough to give the design a shimmering effect. I find myself proud to be donning such decorated attire, and a little happy that she took the time to make them for me.

I slip my arms through the sleeves of the coat, drawing it up and fastening it. The collar of the shirt is high on my neck, the neckline of the coat low enough to show the shirt. I turn. My wife is sitting on our bed waiting for me to be ready.

She is beautiful this evening, her excitement peeking through the proper air she is attempting to cultivate, giving her eyes a delightful twinkle. Sarah has taken Christiana's long hair and managed to coax it up into some intricate style. I am almost hesitant to touch her, for I know I shall undoubtedly undo some of Sarah's work without much effort. I stride to her, holding out my hands. She lets me pull her to her feet.

"Is it time?"

My smile comes easily at her eagerness. "Soon." Bending down, I kiss her lightly. "A couple things," I say, dragging my fingers along the low neckline of her gown, caressing the pale, silken flesh. "You may dance tonight if you wish. It will actually be expected that one of us do so, Duke Henry is annoying in that regard, and since I do not dance, it shall have to be you." She closes her eyes, tilting her head back in invitation. I take that invitation, regretting we do not have time before the banquet to lie abed. My lips travel the path my fingers took and I tug her gown lower in order to nuzzle at the hollow between her breasts. Her hands slide into my hair, raking through it.

"And the next?" Her voice holds a breathless quality, the same sort of sound it has after I have kissed her for long moments.

I kiss my way up to her lips, taking a quick, delicious nibble before answering. "Do not approach Jocelyn to speak with her."

Christiana steps back, surprised, her gaze quizzical. "Why? What is so terrible about me speaking to Jocelyn? You do not seem to care if we write."

I do not think I could explain to her my reasoning. For her to speak to Jocelyn here, in person, is to give that woman a chance to coax my wife to cuckold me with that peasant. Not that I know he is here. I do not. But I would not have the chance presented. I gingerly touch the fancy hairstyle Sarah has created for her, the many little curls fastened high on Christiana's head. "Please, just do as I ask on this." I have found that a 'please' sprinkled here and there makes her less likely to question me further on a matter. This time is not different.

Disappointment flickers in her velvet brown gaze, but she nods. "Alright. I will not initiate a conversation with Jocelyn. What if we meet in a dance and she speaks with me?"

"Do not draw it out. I realize your meeting is unavoidable really, but do not encourage conversation." With a last kiss, I add, "Please. For me."

The opening banquet is what I remember from previous turns in the Tournament circuit. I used to enjoy the conversation, but this year I am anxious for the hours to draw to a close. Already, I wonder how soon until Christiana and I can decently make our escape. I would rather spend the hours with her in our tent than sit here all evening listening to Duke Henry tell me yet again about the wild boar he fought with his bare hands. Everyone knows the story is a fabrication, yet he tells it whenever the urge strikes him. After the first course, he begins retelling the story to Lady Elizabeth on his left and I turn my attention to Christiana.

She has been listening politely to Lady Cicely drone on about some boring matter and when I place my hand on her knee under the table cloth, she turns back to me with an expression of relief, her hand going to cover mine. She squeezes my fingers.

I am glad we wore the matching clothes. We caused quite a stir among those who know me, a ripple in their expectations of me that I find perverse glee in causing. I have been causing a stir anyway, or so I have been told by Germaine. He should know. He has close...ties to many young maids in different places. 

He has found that my marriage to Christiana astonished many people, especially how quickly I did so after losing Jocelyn to Thatcher. My motives have been mulled over. Christiana's family has been discreetly, and sometimes not so discreetly, pumped for information. All want to know if Jocelyn was my true aim. Or had I really been interested in Christiana all along? What _was_ the reason we wed so quickly and privately? It had been assumed that when I wed, it would be a grand, huge affair. Since Christiana's belly is not rounding out, they can find no reason. Why would _I_ wed a poor Lord's daughter? The gossip-mongers have been having a wonderful time speculating.

I glance about the tables, my gaze touching on Jocelyn for a brief second, long enough to see that she is frowning across the room at us. Christiana rests her hand on my thigh and I become distracted by her.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is a relief to glimpse Christiana across the room from us. Wisely, Will and Adhemar have been parted by the long length of the tables. I had entertained horrible visions of the four of us sitting together and the two men ending up in a fist fight. Thank the Lord God it will not be so. She sits beside her husband and they almost seem apart from their neighbors, alone together as they eat. I am surprised to see that he is as gentle with her as Will is with me. He places food on her plate for her, lets her drink from their cup before him. He looks at her as though she is the only woman in the room. 

The thought bothers me. I cannot imagine Adhemar being gentle with anyone. I do not think he can give Christiana poetry should she desire it. But, she does not look unhappy. She does look as though she cares for him. She smiles at him, touches his arm in a fond gesture and I am baffled. He is a beast of a man, a wretched creature. Or is he? Has he changed? I give a tiny shake of my head. No. That man could never change. It is inconceivable to even think such a thing.

I remember her letters and my attention shifts solely to Christiana. She has adjusted to her role it seems. Her bearing has turned regal and her long hair is piled in curls and ringlets on top of her head. It occurs to me that I have never seen Christiana with her hair up before. She had usually chosen to wear it long and loose. I find myself proud of her, as a family member would be. Indeed, I am the closest thing to a true sister she has since her family eschewed her.

They match in their clothes, cloth of midnight blue, with silvery accents. I cannot tell from this distance if the silver is her handiwork, but I assume it is. I wonder if she had to persuade Adhemar out of that black he favors, for I do not think he cared much for clothes really. I must admit, though it is a grudging admission, they do make a handsome pair. If only he could _feel_ something for her!

~~~~~~~~~~

The meal has ended and the professional entertainment is over. The dancing is about to begin. Christiana turns in her chair, giving me an enquiring lift of her brows. At my nod, she leans close, pressing a quick kiss on the corner of my mouth. Her defiance of the unspoken rule that there shall be no public physical displays of affection at Duke Henry's banquets amuses me. Perhaps we shall start a new fashion. I brush my fingers over the slight ache on my brow as she joins those already on the floor.

Jocelyn is not among those who head for the dance floor. Strange, for I remember she, like Christiana, loved to dance. Curious, I look towards the table where she and her husband were placed. I see her and Thatcher getting up from their seats, the reason for her absence from the dance floor rather obvious as she stands. Jocelyn is pregnant, her belly sweeping out in front of her and proclaiming her state louder than a trumpets blast. She must be close to being due to be that large. Taking up my cup, I sit back in my seat. Seeing her so far gone with child, my mind counts back the months and I am suddenly glad I lost her to Thatcher. I would not have raised his child as my own.

They leave the hall.

The music begins, the dancers taking their places. I stand the discomfort as I always have, gritting my teeth and pretending I am not bothered by the discordant sounds. The ache grows with each sound I hear, a pounding in my temples. My eyes follow my wife as she dances, my vision tunneling until I only see her, watching for any improper placement of hands upon her. I shall not hesitate to go onto the dance floor and yank a man from her who is being too forward. 

My vow to do that is unnecessary however. After several long dances, she returns to my side, slipping into her chair and drinking from our cup. "Enjoying the dance?" I ask. My voice sounds as though I have been the one dancing, a gasping to my ears. I touch my hand to my temple. I can feel the pulse tapping there beneath my fingers, a throbbing I can almost hear over the noise in the room. My fingers come away damp. There is sweat on my brow. The pain is progressing, my stomach turning. The light is too bright, growing brighter by the second.

"I was," she replies, surreptitiously sliding her hand under my coat to touch my back. I can feel the tension in my back, a coiling that is becoming tighter and tighter with each passing moment. Christiana presses her cheek on my shoulder, a loving touch for any watching. "Your head?"

I close my eyes a moment, nodding, "Yes." If only I could be away from the light of this room. Darkness will help to ease the pounding that is in my temples. Darkness will soothe, will force my aches away. The tension will be released _if only _I can be away from this place....

She turns in her chair, her hand going down my arm to grasp my hand. It shakes a tiny bit within hers. "Let us retire." We are among the first to leave. She tugs lightly as she stands and turns. My arm ends up around her and we leave the banquet.

We manage to reach our tent without mishap, Christiana dismissing Germaine as she blows out most of the candles he had lit for us. I pace the confines of the tent, only really hearing her through a haze of pain. I follow her into the partitioned area in the back. "It has not been this bad in a year." My voice has become a hoarse whisper. A year. Well, not quite. The last attack of this magnitude was after the first banquet Will Thatcher attended in his guise as Sir Ulrich. The headache had set upon me as I watched the dance, growing as I left the hall. It had been long, excruciating hours before it receded that night. I look at Christiana, my beautiful, caring wife.

She is at the head of our bed, pillows piled behind her. She has stripped to her shift and placed a little pillow on her lap, a haven for my ill if I need her to be. "Quite pacing and come here."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, but the throbbing in my head will not cease. I can taste oranges in the back of my throat, smell that citrus scent, though there are no oranges anywhere. "It will not stop." I now have to force myself to speak, the effort to continue doing so gargantuan. My stomach rolls with queasiness and the light of that single candle she has left burning sends arcs of fresh agony lancing across my brow.

"Etienne." Christiana says sharply. "Come here."

I go to the bed. This wretched pain has made me helpless as it sometimes does. I almost cry to relieve the building pressure, but from experience I know it would be a hindrance to do so. Crying does not relieve the pressure, I discovered that years ago. It only adds to it, burdening a head already feeling as though it is splintering with an added discomfort.

"Lie down and let me help you." Her arms are open to me, welcoming. She is a woodland nymph crept into my tent, inviting me to take ease in her embrace, and I do as she ordered, placing my head in her lap and looking up at her. I am helpless, naked as a babe from the agony in my head.

"Close your eyes." She whispers.

Her fingertips, wonderfully cool and soothing, stroke across my brow and temples. I let out a heavy breath, allowing my eyes to slip shut, placing me fully at her mercy. Slowly, the touches grow harder and I drift, not quite awake or asleep, in a twilight place while she liberates me from the hurt. My body relaxes, I can feel each muscle letting go of the tension coiled inside. I smell the scent of that perfume she favors, hear her steady, slow breath. Gradually, I become aware that the ache has disappeared. Her hands run through my hair in the same measured pace she used on my face. I open my eyes and reach up, capturing one hand in mine. I press a lingering kiss to her fingertips.

"Thank you." I release her hand and slowly sit, having a care for any possible lingering bits of hurt. "I have suffered these aches for as long as I can remember."

Christiana sits forward, capturing my shoulders in an embrace, her pale arms going about me, one hand slipping into my shirt to caress my chest in soft sweeps. "Does the music always cause them?" She keeps her voice pitched low.

"Usually, but not always. That is the puzzling thing about them. I am never certain what has brought one on. I will be fine and then I will have a peculiar feeling in my stomach, something akin to nausea, the scent and taste of oranges appearing."

"Well, if I am there when you have one, I will soothe the pain away for you."

I turn my head to glimpse her. Her fingers slow in their stroking along my chest and I turn fully, pressing her back onto the pillows. "You are so good to me."

Her lips curve in an enchanting smile. "Should I not be?"

I decline to answer, leaning over to blow out the candle and plunge us into darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~

The galley is different this year, to accommodate more people I suppose. There are six rows on an angled platform to each side of the hosting Lord and Lady, outer stairs giving access to the top and bottom levels, with an inner stair leading between the levels. I am early enough that there are many seats to choose from. The front row has filled for this mornings parade of competitors and I choose a seat in the third row.

Beside me, Sarah is wrapped up in her cloak and shivering as she yawns, though her eyes twinkle with excitement. I find myself watching her after the opening parade of competitors has finished. The first match is set up. She leans forward and....goes ashen, flinching as the men collide, lances and splinters going everywhere. Her mouth opens.

"Is that really what happens in the joust?" She whispers to me.

I find it strange that she has never witnessed a joust before, knowing what I now know about her extensive family. Etienne told me that the D'Arcy's enjoy games, especially those that show off skills learned in battle. That was one reason he and Merrick got on so well. Both men enjoy the sports. "Yes. That was a mild one. They can get brutal."

"Oh my God. I had not thought it so barbaric. Mother never let me go to the games at home, although we did tend some of the men after them...." She trails off, comprehension building in her gaze. "The hurts we tended were from the games, weren't they?" I nod and she shudders. "I had not connected the wounds before."

As the morning goes on, Sarah gets paler and paler, until she will not look at the field. She cannot stand the sight of two grown men rushing headlong at each other with the intent to either unhorse or kill one another and finally asks to stay in her small tent sewing. Sensible girl. I would be elsewhere if I could, for I do not truly enjoy the joust either, save for watching my husband. As any wife, I find a pride in his abilities on the field.

I hear Etienne's name being called and sit up a little straighter, my hands in my lap. The token I gave him, a scarf I embroidered, is displayed for all to see on his arm, wound tight so it will not get caught on anything as he competes. It is no surprise to me when he wins his first match. His opponents horse is led away by Germaine as his opponent is carried away, unconscious and in doubt as to if he will wake up at all.

I scan the crowd. To my right, I see Will and Jocelyn arrive, Jocelyn tossing me a smile over her shoulder as they make their way to a now empty section of the front row. I am not allowed to speak to her. Etienne made his request and I will honor it. As she turns to go to her seat, I see she is rounding nicely, her belly quite large for a woman only about six months along. I am happy for her and Will. They sit almost directly in front of me and I feel better just knowing they are there.

How is it that a good day can go awry in moments, forcing a person into a horrible, desperate mood? After a break for food, the joust began again. Etienne was to compete a final time, then join me in the galley. We had arranged it that morning before I left for the galley. I watched and waited, the sensation of being stared at settling on the back of my neck. For awhile, I could ignore the whispers behind me, those conversations just loud enough to let me know I am being talked about. But then, the women began gathering their courage to approach me. The first two were almost pleasant, friendly in an awkward way, congratulating me on my marriage and asking if I was pregnant yet. I remembered them from last year and was fine with them and their chatter.

When they left, other women began to come forward, a steady stream of them. It was the other women that shoved my day into a bad place, for I have been beset by those jealous women whose claims to know the inside of my husband's tent are likely not all false. I am quite aware that Etienne did not live a monk's life before we married. Any man with his extensive knowledge of a woman's body was by no stretch of the imagination celibate.

These women slip into the galley beside me, all beauties of various hair color and say they wish to be friends. They 'know Count Adhemar well and wish to befriend his Lady'. Any pleasantness is fleeting, for they immediately set catty remarks forth as to my appropriateness as a wife and of his seeming faithfulness to me. I am forced to endure their presence now, as I wait for Etienne to join me. He is done for the day and we shall watch some of the matches this afternoon. I expect him any second.

"Really," one unnamed woman says, her lovely face set in a strange smile, "Is it true that your marriage to Etienne was almost called off, dear? There have been whispers that you were screwing a peasant, like a common _maid_ would. And I heard he was most angry with you." Her companions all titter, as though she has made a grand joke.

My face burns with embarrassment. It is no one's business what went on between Etienne and myself in the time before we married. I cannot think of a reply and twist my hands in the fabric of my skirt, doing my best to ignore the woman and pretend I do not hear her. I do not understand the attitude of these women. Last year, Jocelyn and I met many pleasant girls, but most who have appeared this year are anything but pleasant. Is it possible that my attendance has caused them to surface?

"That is not what I heard." I look up. Jocelyn is stepping daintily down the stair, on her way to her seat, pausing abreast the line of us. Despite her very obviously pregnant state, she is the very portrait of confidence. Her belly size has not changed her carriage any at all. She is still graceful. I see many envious eyes directed at her belly. That she could marry for love has quite a few women resentful of her. "I have it on good authority that the vows were delayed because there were urgent estate matters requiring Count Adhemar's attention. His mother eased Christiana's transition into the household during that time."

"Patrice?" The woman scoffs, lips twisting. "Like mother like son."

I have witnessed Jocelyn doing battle with other woman before and I wish I had the ability myself, but, alas, I am not good at verbal warfare. A hardness grows in her eyes as she considers the woman.

"Whatever do you mean?" Jocelyn finally asks, brows raised, waiting with a patient air for a reply.

The blond beauty shakes her head. "Oh, just that I do not see that Lady welcoming any woman into that house. She has tight reign on it and would not allow her position to be usurped." She picks a piece of thread from her dress, glancing at the field. "Your little maid has _not_ denied the charge, _Lady Thatcher_." She spits out Jocelyn's title and name as though it is sour.

"Count Adhemar displayed the sheets, Lady Mayes. I have been told that there was no doubt by _any_," she places a stress and a pause on the word, "that he was her first...Something about how a cry can echo in that house the way it is built...and by how gingerly she moved the next day."

I had not thought of that, of either of those. Some of the looks I was given that next day now have a new meaning.

"That means nothing. Either can be faked."

"Christiana bled for her husband. Did you for yours? Let me remember." Jocelyn parodies thought, a finger on her jaw. "Oh, I recall now. You did not. In fact, your father had to scrounge to find a man for you after all you did. Your antics and greed lost you a Count, Lady Mayes."

Anger grows in Lady Mayes' icy blue eyes. "You bitch." 

"Your jealousy is showing."

"And the common blood I always suspected was in you is showing right out front in that belly!" Lady Mayes hisses.

Jocelyn gives a small smile and rubs her hand over the swell. "At least _I _can have children." There is a collective intake of breath at that. I wonder what happened with this woman, what Jocelyn knows that I do not, for I have never heard of her before today.

Her opponent stands, fury mottling her face. "She does not belong in that house."

"Obviously she does, for that is where she is. _She_ is his wife."

The woman looks at me, the malice in her eyes causing me to flinch. What have I done to this woman? What ill does she perceive is between us? "No woman has him for long, dear. When you do not please him anymore, he will find another and sequester you away on one of his remote estates."

"Will he?" Jocelyn asks. "Are you certain of that?"

"I am as certain of that as the fact that the sun rises in the east."

"Why not ask the man to clarify his intentions for his wife?" A languid hand is motioned towards the top of the stairs.

Etienne is there. He has paused and is looking at the women with a somewhat hunted expression. What has caused him to have that look?

The group of women follow their leader, the Lady Mayes, up the stair. As Lady Mayes passes Etienne, they both practically snarl at each other. There is clearly no love lost between them. He waits for them to pass by and comes down to the row, glancing at me. "Lady Jocelyn?" I know he is wondering on our close proximity. Have I ignored his request, he is asking himself.

Jocelyn glares up at Etienne. "I had not connected Beatrice and her tricks with you until right now. Somehow that little tidbit was not commonly known." She draws in a deep breath. "A word of advice to you, take it or leave it as you wish. You should not leave Christiana alone in the galley for them again. She does not have the gift of deflecting their sneering words. Next time, I may not be around to help her defend herself against them."

He crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. "Defend herself? She does quite well at home."

"They were questioning her virtue, and her place as your wife. You might make it known how you stand on her. Publicly. Soon." She gives me a smile and brushes by him, going back up the steps. In a moment she is gone and I am eternally grateful that she put aside her dislike for Etienne and defended our marriage against those women.

Etienne sits in the seat beside me, his hand touching my face. "You are crying."

"I am hurt."

"Do words pain you so much, Christiana?" His arm goes along the back of my seat, his hand on my shoulder pressing me to lay my head on his shoulder. I do so. It shall be easier to talk in relative privacy that way.

"Yes." I answer truthfully. "I do not like being spit upon as those harpies were doing. They all claimed to know you well, especially the blond Lady Mayes."

He snorts. "Ignore Beatrice. She is just stirring up trouble."

"I cannot ignore them. They will not leave me alone. As soon as one leaves, another shows up."

"Have Sarah join you here. The reputation of her family will keep many of them away." I feel his shoulder shift beneath my head.

"Sarah hates the joust."

He sighs heavily. "I will fix this, Christiana. Somehow."

We do not stay to watch the matches.


	18. Tournament: Part 2

Title: Tournament: Part 2

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Day two and the end of the first Tournament of the season. 

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

~~~~~~~~~~

I am not looking forward to sitting in the galley this day, not after those women ruined the first day for me, but I will not take the cowards way out. I refuse to sit in my tent hiding from those women. I make my way to the galley and find Jocelyn in the seat I usually take. She is awake early, for she does not like rising at dawn, and it is just after.

"I shall guard your back." She says quietly. "Take the front row where I sat yesterday. They will have to get by me to reach you, and...I suppose he will like to see you there."

A smile curves my lips. I do not know what to say. "Jocelyn..."

She shakes her head, then inclines it slightly to the lowest row. "Go. Before he can come out and see us speaking. I would not have you in trouble with him."

I sit and the galley fills up, save those seats between Jocelyn and I. We have the front to ourselves this morn. I see my husband come out to the field with a group of competitors, walking the length of the field, but when they pass the galley, he breaks from them to come up the stair. He does not have any armor on yet. That will be put on as he waits for his turn. He comes to me and focuses a long, cold stare at the rows behind me before looking at me. He holds up the scarf I gave him before coming here, drapes it over his arm, drawing the flimsy cloth slowly out so that the embroidery I did is displayed for all to see.

"I am not content with this token you gave me today, wife."

There is an outraged gasp behind me on my right, most likely Jocelyn, and a woman's laugh, loud and throaty and undoubtedly the Lady Mayes. That raucous, crass laugh rings in my ears, my heart twisting in my chest as I stare uncomprehendingly at my husband. Etienne sits in the seat beside me, arm along the back of my seat, his gaze turned onto me now, a gentle expression creeping into his eyes.

"You left before I could have a kiss as well. Give me one and I shall be most satisfied."

I am scarce able to draw a relieved breath before he is kissing me, a thorough caress of my mouth with his, one that is blistering in intensity and lasts until the galley has become still and silent. He ends it right at the point of impropriety, lips treading a warm path along my cheek to whisper in my ear, "You may sit with her. I suppose there is truly no harm in that. As you pointed out, I have allowed you to write." Drawing back, he smirks at whoever is behind me watching before standing and leaving the galley.

His long legs quickly stride the length of the arena, his black dressed form disappearing behind the other men standing there waiting. He is lost in the crowd. I glance back at Jocelyn. Her eyes are wide and mouth open with incredulity. I motion to her and she joins me warily.

"Is he drunk?" She asks, settling herself in the seat. "He must be, for there is no other explanation for that public display of affection."

I shake my head, fighting the huge grin that is pulling at my lips. I will not give in to it. Let them all think such displays are commonplace for the two of us. "No. I think that was his way of 'fixing things'."

Her glance is long, searching my face and she raises her brows. "Why Christiana, you are blushing! And how becoming it is to you." She reaches out, grasping one of my hands and squeezing it. "I am glad he took my counsel." Her gaze searches the field, looking to see if Etienne has spotted her with me I think, and Jocelyn starts to stand. 

I do not let her go, tugging her hand. "Stay."

"No. You will get yourself in trouble. I will not let you." Jocelyn twists her hand, frees it. "As much as I wish to talk with you, chatter is not worth your husband's temper."

"You do not have to go. He has changed his mind for some reason. We can sit together, you and I. He told me we could just now."

A wide smile curves her lips and she settles back down into the seat. "Really?"

"I do not know why." His sudden change of heart puzzles me. "He was adamant before..."

She waves her hand about in the air, dismissing my words. "Who cares why? Let us talk."

With Jocelyn to talk with, the time flies and by the end of the third day, I begin to have a differing attitude. What do these silly women think we are doing when Etienne has me fetched to our tent after he wins a match? Talking? I must laugh at that, for Tournament has made Etienne most amorous. A win invigorates him. I walk to our tent, still shaking my head at the latest insinuations Lady Mayes and her group are thrusting at me. The idea that Etienne is straying with some woman here at Tournament is preposterous. He has no time for other women, not with all the effort he is putting forth on me. I have him practically attached to my hip when he is not competing.

I go inside, watching as his armor is removed. He has won at the joust today, his final match until tomorrow. At this rate, he and Will are going to face one another soon. Who knows how that shall turn out? Jocelyn and I are both holding our breath on it. Etienne does not say a word as the pages flee with his armor. Everyone knows what we do after a win. Anyone who does not, has no ears to hear.

"He is here." He turns from me, stalking into the back of the tent where a bath is waiting.

"Who?" I ask, following, surprised that he has not at least kissed me. Under normal circumstances, the bath is forgotten until his appetite for me wanes. He drops his clothes in a pile and sinks into the waiting warmth of the bath. Etienne does not answer, arms resting on the edges of the tub. He already knows Will is here, so that is not what has him moody. "Etienne? Who do you mean?"

He blinks rapidly, then rakes his gaze over me. "The peasant. And you with no virginity to protect."

My eyes widen as his meaning becomes clear. Roland. He means Roland. I go to Etienne, kneel at the tub side. "What do you say?"

"I say my wife could easily cuckold me."

"That blow you took to the head earlier today has addled your brains."

His left hand lashes out, sliding on my neck before finding a grip. I am tugged over the edge of the tub, my hands catching at him, one clasping the arm that holds me, the other at his back. For a moment, I think he means to shove my face into the water and drown me, but then he twists, bringing his right hand under my arm to support some of my weight. The edge of the tub digs painfully into my breasts. "Do I not give you what you need? Does Jocelyn arrange a meeting between you and he as you sit together in the galley?"

"No. I hide nothing from you. You know that."

"No meeting?"

"No. _None_." His eyes narrow and he heaves me forward until I am in the tub with him. Water splashes out at my added weight, my clothes greedily sucking in the water until they are sopping wet and heavy along me. My face is pressed to his chest, his arms wrapping around me. My legs dangle over the side of the tub. It is an uncomfortable pose, but I do not say a word about my discomfort. We remain this way for a long while.

~~~~~~~~~~

The demon jealousy has risen and I am powerless to stop it. It sits along my shoulders, digging sharp talons into my flesh. I know Christiana is faithful. She has had no opportunity to be unfaithful. But...jealousy does not let go. Jealousy is a willing bed partner, an eager one even, and my mind begins to wonder if Christiana would respond to another man as she does me.

I am in hell.

If I had not seen that man, perhaps I could have gotten through this week without visions of her straying from me. Perhaps jealousy would have quieted it's shrieks in my ears, the talons on it's clawed hands losing sharpness....

I cannot wait for this to be over so I can take her home. Maybe there this jealousy will not rear up again. Maybe _there_ I can control it.

~~~~~~~~~~

We watch Germaine pace and look about and finally, with a puzzled air, shake his head. Gradually, as the forfeit is made known, the loud cries of, "Adhemar! Adhemar! Adhemar!" die out to a disappointed murmur. Jocelyn and I both lean forward, scanning Adhemar's side of the field. Only Germaine, two squire's and his horse are there. No Adhemar. He has forfeited the match, not even shown up. It is not like the man at all.

I watch the herald lead the horse away, the squires following. I still cannot believe what my eyes have seen. Adhemar did not show up for a jousting match. Now, I glance about the galley. Christiana is not present. She is normally here when Adhemar competes. Unease growing, I bend my head to my love, "What make you of this turn?"

Jocelyn smoothes her gown over her belly and shakes her head. "I do not know. She has spoken of his possessive streak of late and I know he prefers her in their tent with him when he is not competing." Her shoulders lift in a delicate shrug. "Perhaps they dallied and he lost track of time?"

"Possible with you and I," I drawl, "but Adhemar? With the crowd roaring his name like that? No." I shake my head, again scanning the field. "Something has happened. Shall we see what?" Standing, I help her up and give her my arm, keeping a watch as we leave the galley for any wearing the mark of his household. It takes us frustratingly long moments to leave the galley, as everyone else apparently had the idea to leave the same time we did, and an even longer time to make our way to where the maze of tents are.

I truly do not think they lost track of time. There is something more to this. My opinion, and I would not present it to Jocelyn, for she would argue, is that Adhemar is caught. The things Christiana has written of, they are all doings of a man more than half gone. The lavish attention. The sudden burst of compliments. His trying to keep other men from her. He is trying to become her whole world. Seeing them together has only served to strengthen my opinion. It is merely a matter of time before Cupid's arrow fully penetrates that cold stone of his heart and allows life to tiptoe inside. I recognize the madness of it myself, having gone through its early stages months ago.

Soon, she could ask him to prove his love and he would do so without qualms, never realizing that she holds his heart in her hands until there is no return possible. I predict that then, he will give one last gasp, a final fight for freedom from his 'Achilles' heel', but he will lose.

Jocelyn would not believe me. She would scoff that Adhemar _has_ no feelings, not understanding that a man who can feel an intense hatred for another person is capable of feeling a love that is just as incendiary in its passion as that hate. I do not doubt that he can love another. The question is: will he force himself to destroy that love out of fear of it, or will he allow himself to surrender and ultimately become whole?

Even Geoff would be wary of wagering on the outcome. There is no telling which direction Adhemar will go. It depends on so many factors. Did our dance affect him in any way? Has Christiana changed something within him? How much of his true self has he been forced to see? And how unhappy has that revelation made him? He must want to change in order for a change to begin. Some little part of him must desire a difference in what he is. I would not wager. The unpredictability is too great.

We reach our tent, but before we can continue onward, Kate and Wat run up, both out of breath, faces flushed.

"You will not believe what we just saw." Kate gasps, hands on her hips as she sucks in breath. "Adhemar--"

"Leaving!" Wat finishes for her. "He put Christiana on his horse and they took off."

"Germaine and the rest of the house are finishing packing. They follow when they are done." Kate grimaces, digging a hand into her side as though it hurts to breathe.

I exchange a glance with Jocelyn. "Has he been called to join Edward?"

Roland steps from the tent beside us, shouldering the flap aside. Sadness is in his gaze. "No. Adhemar saw me yesterday afternoon." He licks his lips. "I am sorry Jocelyn. I did not see him until after he had already seen me. He went from a good mood to an visibly furious one."

She places her hand on his arm. "It is not your fault Roland. You have been amazingly good natured about staying out of sight and I thank you for that."

"I suspect they would have left early, regardless." I murmur, Jocelyn turning to stare up at me, curiosity on her lovely features.

"And what do you know that I do not?"

"Just a hunch." I shrug, not willing to reveal the entirety of my thoughts on the subject to her.

The others decline to comment, but Jocelyn will not let the statement go, turning to Kate. "Do you share that hunch, Kate?"

Kate gives a surprised raise of her brows. "Oh. Um..." She can only pretend being out of breath for so long before Jocelyn's foot begins tapping and she must answer. "Aye. I have the same hunch. He will want her to himself."

"He is jealous." Jocelyn agrees, her face reflecting an uncertainty. "Do you think she will be--"

"Fine." Kate assures her. "Christiana will be fine. She has been so for months now. She does not look unhappy, Jocelyn."

My love's face darkens, as though she cannot give reason to Christiana's happiness. "I know. She claims to love him."

The sun slips from behind the clouds above us, warm golden rays touching upon us.

~~~~~~~~~~

I wake to Sarah shaking me, her face close to mine, voice an urgent whisper. "My Lady! My Lady, wake up!"

Sleepily, I blink, and sit upright clutching the covers to me, my eyes widening as I register just what I am seeing. Our personal belongings are scattered about the tent, trunks open. Some of my clothes are tossed on the bed at my feet. It looks as though someone has attempted to pack us in a hurry and run out halfway through the task. "Sarah?" I ask and she hastens to tell me.

"I came to wake you earlier and he said to let you sleep, that I should go find you a treat to break the fast. When I came back, Germaine had already left for the fields with his horse and a couple squires and he was having his armor strapped on. Suddenly, he began pulling at it, ordering them to stop. He punched Richard when he did not move quick enough. Blood went everywhere. I think he broke poor Richard's nose. They removed the armor and he came in here and began packing. I heard the trumpets and the crowd, but it was like he had gone mad. He would throw something in a trunk, then look around as though he did not know what to do next."

As she speaks, I hurriedly wash from the pitcher and dress, dragging a brush through my hair. Etienne slips into the tent as I reach for the pastry Sarah brought me. He looks me up and down, then motions impatiently.

"Good. You are ready. Come, we leave."

"What of your matches today?"

Germaine appears in the flap. "My Lord Adhemar, you have forfeited the joust." His face shows disbelief and concern.

Etienne does not reply to Germaine's statement, staring at me, his hands on his hips. "Christiana? We leave. _Come now_."

When I do not move, he strides forward and takes my arm in a gentle, yet unbreakable clasp, pulling me outside the tent and past Germaine. Richard, his nose swollen and red, a crust of dried blood under his nostrils, is removing the leg guards from my husband's horse.

"My Lord Adhemar." Germaine says louder and Etienne flashes an annoyed frown his way.

"It is only a game, Germaine." His fingers touch my face, a tender caress as I hurriedly nibble the pastry. My stomach turns just a bit at the food, as it has the past couple days, but I know if I eat nothing I shall be starving when we stop to eat later. "I wish to be at home with my wife, not..._preening_ before a crowd of fickle fans."

Germaine's mouth opens, but he says nothing, the surprise on his features nearly comical. After a moment, he inclines his head. "As you wish, my Lord. I shall notify the proper authorities."

"Then finish packing. Sarah may ride Christiana's mare until we meet up this evening. Christiana and I shall ride ahead." He reaches for the reigns of his mount, taking them from young Andrew.

If Sarah is to ride my mare, then what am I riding? I finish the pastry as he swings up into the saddle. He leans down, arm held out.

I raise my brows and shrug. If he thinks there is enough room up there for the both of us, I will not argue. Soon, I am behind him, tight against him, my arms about his waist and cheek pressed to his back. I glimpse Kate and Wat in the crowd, and then we are off, leaving all behind.


	19. Confrontation

Title: Confrontation

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Things are not always what they seem. Adhemar and Christiana reach their breaking points with each other.

Rating: PG-13, for swearing and violence.

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: The letter is in italics.

~~~~~~~~~~

'_Dearest Jocelyn,_

I am in shock. My only emotion is numbness, a great pool of it closing over me. I cannot believe the thing that has just happened. My hands tremble and writing these words is a difficult thing, both for that physical shaking and for the idea that to write it down is to acknowledge it has happened.

He nearly struck me today.

My husband nearly hit me. His fist raised, shook with his anger, and he struck the young knight beside me instead. It was clear he wished to strike me. I turned and ran into the manor--'

"Christiana wait!"

__

'--to our chamber, dropping the bar onto our door only seconds before he was there, banging against it, trying to break it down.'

"Dammit wife! Open this door!"

'--For nearly an hour, he yelled and cursed and hit the door. I have never heard such language as he used!

What was my crime, you ask? Why did he succumb to his rage? I went riding without telling him first. Riding with only Einon as escort. This simple thing has put him into a rage. I am so very confused. I do not understand.

Sometimes he is loving and gentle and I know he trusts me, but then, he will suddenly fly into a rage, those jealous fits he is given to. His outbursts are becoming more bizarre, over little things. His behavior is erratic. He drives his men near to exhaustion each day. He pushes himself, and when they are all at the brink of collapse, he taunts them into further exertions. His advances are far spaced because of this physical exhaustion each day and I miss those hours we spent together in the darkest time of night. I miss becoming lost in his embraces.

What ails him? Tell me, Jocelyn, do you have any idea? Do Will or Wat or Roland? Or Kate, even? How can I make him back into the man I have come to love? I want him back and I do not know how to accomplish it.'

I pause in my writing. My hands are slowly steadying, my racing heart calming. There has been silence outside the door for over an hour now and I wonder if Etienne has managed to kill himself in this episode of rage. The thought causes a stab of pain to lance through my heart. I cannot imagine a life without him now. I have become accustomed to him.

My girlish dream of a tame love seems silly to me now. I would have been bored stiff with one of those foppish, mild men. My life here has been anything but boring. I have passion in my life, a passion that is overwhelming in intensity. I have the passion that Jocelyn spoke to me of. It is different from the sort she shares with Will, but just as beautiful.

There is a light knock on the door and I hear Patrice's voice. "Christiana? Etienne bids you to join him in the hall below."

I get up on legs that are quivering and barely hold my weight, go to the door and remove the bar. It is she who opens it. Her gaze, so much like his, studies my face. I must look a mess. My nose is running from the tears I have cried and my face feels hot. My hair is tangled, many of the braids I worked this morning coming undone. With a sigh, she tugs me into a fast hug. I smell the rose scent she favors, breathing in that comforting perfume. She holds me as though I am a child, her hands stroking my hair and back.

"To love a man of this family is to shed many tears, dear. Etienne is exactly like his father was."

"He is hateful."

"He is fighting his feelings."

"He has no feelings." I spit out.

She pushes me out to arms length, her strong hands tight on my shoulders. "Do not give up on him yet, Christiana. My son is on the verge of becoming the man God intended him to be. Do not leave him to fall back into that pit of hatred he had fallen into. _You vowed to love him_."

"He nearly hit me today, Patrice! How can I honor that vow now?" My hands clutch at the sleeves of her dress.

"_Did_ he hit you? Did his fist strike your flesh? I see no evidence of that on you. Do you read his mind now to garner his intent? Perhaps you should hear him out without judging his actions." Her face is expressive in this moment, pleading with me to follow her advice, to hear whatever Etienne has to say. She seems almost desperate for me to do this.

I lower my eyes. "He did not. He hit Einon instead of me. But it was obvious it was me he was angry at." Or was it? There had been a relieved welcome in his hazel eyes for several seconds before that rage surfaced to obliterate the pleasure.

Her hand forces my chin up. "Were he completely lost, dear, and the monster you are thinking him, you would be nursing a broken jaw instead of Einon. He did not strike you. Have faith." She jerks her head towards the stairs. "Now we must go down before he is tired of waiting."

I follow her, wary of him. The hall has many people in it. I realize he has chosen a semi-public place for this meeting for a reason. Does he not trust himself? Does he doubt his own control? I go to the table and take a seat beside him, adjusting the cushions there behind my back with exaggerated care. Patrice sits down the table a ways, taking up a pen and dipping it into ink with delicate jabs before writing on a piece of paper.

Etienne laces his hands together on the table top. He swallows hard and his voice has a coarse, tense quality to it. "I am...sorry. I should not have overreacted as I did. I did not think how....It will not happen again."

"Prove it." I say, the numbness I am encased in making me bold. I am detached almost from the scene, an observer to this drama.

His eyes widen and he turns in his chair. "How?" He unlaces his hands, stretches one out to me, but I pull mine back before his flesh can touch mine. "How can I prove such a thing?"

I shake my head, hands gripping the arms of my chair. It all comes down to trust. I trust him, but what of he to me? What can he do to prove himself to me? "You claim to trust me, then punch a man, breaking his jaw." I lean towards him with each word. "If he had not been there beside me, you would have hit _me_. Your fist would have connected with my face. And why did you lash out at Einon? Because of an imagined ridiculous notion that I wanted him. Your mother was busy. Lydia with Adele. You were nowhere to be found, Etienne. I chose someone to accompany me because you have always wished me to. How could you dare to think that I would even glance at another man when I have everything I could ever want or need in you? Yes, _you._ And now that I have managed to stoke your ego with that admission, you must prove to me that you do trust me, Etienne. What have I done in all these months, to make you think you cannot trust me to be faithful? Anything? Tell me!"

He slumps back in his chair, eyes still wide, mouth open the tiniest bit, his breath harsh and hard in his chest. There is a flush, a dull dark red, spreading along his face and a trickle of sweat runs down his temple. "Nothing. You...you have done nothing."

"I have trusted you, though God only knows why with the horrible things I know you capable of_. I have trusted you_."

The hall is hushed to almost a deathly still, so quiet that our words ring out loud for all to hear. No one even attempts to look like they are working, aside from Patrice. My slow burning temper has risen to a fever pitch, my patience with him most certainly gone. I compress my lips into a tight, thin line as I watch him. His gaze searches the table top in quick, flitting movements, his mouth forming words that have no sound behind them. Expectation tenses my shoulders. We are on the edge, he and I, dancing together on a cliff that will take either one or the both of us. What will he do now?

"Damn!" Etienne strikes the table with his fists and shoves his chair back. The lean, stealthy grace that normally defines his movements is in shambles and he stumbles around the able to stand before me. There is the look of a wild man about him, the emotion in his eyes taking the breath from me.

__

Emotion. The barrier he had placed upon himself is torn down, everything he feels naked upon his face, giving him a vulnerable quality I have never seen in him before. His gaze is as tumultuous as my feelings. He is confused, shocked, saddened and still a bit angry, but not angry, I think, at me. He looks above my head at that damn sheet that still hangs there, both his blood and mine upon it, and swallows hard. 

"I go to Edward. The Free Companies have been re-banded and will join him in two weeks, give or take a few days. We shall be gone probably two to three months, perhaps longer." Now, he places his hands flat on the table and leans down to me, voice tender, yet rough. "You may, in my absence, invite Sir William and Lady Jocelyn to visit with you. They may bring..." He shudders. "...any in their household that they see fit." He licks his lips, right hand raising, fingers grazing my cheek and mouth. A half smile curves his mouth and he blinks with an air of weariness, a man exhausted after having struggled with himself. "How is that for trust, wife?"

I raise, taking his face in my hands. His flesh is hot and clammy. "Thank you." I kiss him, trembling butterfly kisses along his cheeks, jaw and mouth. When I linger on his mouth, he deepens the kiss. It is filled with desperation and need, this meshing of our lips and tongues and I fully expect him to urge me to come around the table and go up to our chamber with him.

He does not, slowing the kiss and easing back. "Trust." He says, then staggers out the hall. I fall hard into my chair. A cup is placed before me and I glance up to see Germaine there, a strange look upon his face.

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head, declining to answer.

"_What_?" I urge.

His gaze turns to Patrice and I find she has come up on my left side, a roll of parchment in one hand, pen and ink in the other. She sets the objects before me. "My dear," she starts. "I believe Germaine is thinking that you have nearly won the war. My sons defenses are down, castle walls breached. He is more open than I have seen him in years." Tears trickle down her face. I am shocked to see this strong woman weeping silently. "Write your letter. Invite your friends. They are only a scant three days from here. Depending on the arrangements they must make, you should expect them just over a week. Giles goes to visit friends and I am off to see my new home, so you and Lydia and Adele must welcome your guests. Spare nothing. Show them the best welcome this manor can give."

~~~~~~~~~~

I have plummeted to depths in which I have never gone before. I have become the most detestable of men, spying in my own house upon my wife, the insanity of that cliff jealousy pulling me closer. Christiana has done nothing to warrant my suspicions, yet still they arise, placing devious turns into the simplest of things. The talons of the demon shred my insides and I am helpless against that jealous side of me. The rational part tells me that Christiana is most faithful and attentive, yet the jealous part brings that peasant man's face to the surface of memory.

I should not remember the man, for he was and is nothing to me, but I can see his face at will and imagine he and my wife together, though I know full well he has never possessed her. Jealousy is a cold thing. It rides my back day in and day out, whispering in my ear until I must wear myself out training to be free of it. Even then, I wake to its evil ponderings.

My reflection is something to be avoided. I cannot bear to see my face, to see the tortured expression of a man twisted by his personal demon. I fear Christiana will betray me. Strange to feel fear again, for long years have passed since my folly of the Lady Beatrice and I had thought to eradicate such weakness as fear. But I do fear, which drives the demon further and I do the lowest of things.

I spy on her. I watch her more intently than I did follow Thatcher in the rain that afternoon. Almost every move she makes is in my sight. Even her correspondence is not safe. I read her letters before they are sent and I read the letters coming to her. Germaine was surprisingly bold enough to voice his displeasure in my actions. He then waited expectantly. She has unmanned me so completely that I could not discipline his insolence in questioning me. My hand would not lift and all I could do was nod to dismiss him.

Her letters. Dear God in the heavens, her letters! I now know her innermost thoughts, for she pours out her heart to the Lady Jocelyn, every single thing she feels is laid to parchment and I see her bare. She writes of that weakness love and how she feels it for me. She despairs of my feelings for her. I know I have hurt her deeply and continue to do so daily with my words and actions. She puts each thing to the paper and I cringe to read what I am doing to her. God help me, I cannot stop!

I am losing my manhood to her as I had begun to lose it during my lusting for Jocelyn, except I cannot escape the inevitability of it, for Christiana is my wife.

__

She is my wife.

Until we part at death.

My madness is overtaking me. My men despise me fully now, for I drive them as hard as I drive myself, punishing them with training. If I can find no ceasing from my pain, then they will have no rest.

I found myself just this morning considering wrapping my hands about that slender, pale column of her throat and squeezing the breath, _nay_, the life, from her as she slept to free myself from this turmoil. My hands were caressing that silken vulnerable flesh, when she woke, eyes opening and lips curving in the gentlest of morning greetings. I could not find the desire, truly, to do the heinous deed that whirled in my mind as a solution. No, to kill her is to lose myself and I would die as well.

The horror at that thought of harming her spurs me now. I have not mastered her. No. She has mastered _me_! I must be parted from her, this witch who charms my heart into the weakness of emotion. I have readied my army and plan to join Edward in his latest battle.

To show I trust her, which it has become painfully clear she does not believe, I have told her she may invite Sir Will's household to visit while I am gone. I do trust _her_. It is everyone else I do not trust. Yet I shall rely on her judgment and her faithfulness while I am away. Her kisses of thanks did nothing to assuage the emotions that rage through me. I am no longer the ice demon my mother has called me for years. Christiana has melted the ice and set a fire burning within me that I do not know how to control.

How could she misunderstand so horribly this afternoon? Then again, she does not know what Germaine has told me of Einon. She does not know that he has bragged that he could have her if he wished. He has been warned before to stay away from her. I was not alarmed this afternoon when I learned she had gone riding, not until Germaine came running with the news that Einon had left with her and they had been gone a long while.

I recall running to the stable to ride out and look for them, Germaine behind me, and being so relieved to see her dismounting her mare, safe and unmolested, that my legs threatened to give way beneath me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that insolent boy Einon coming to stand beside her, a smirk on his features, my hand lifting, fist forming and lashing out as I still looked at my wife.

Christiana gave a horrified "Oh!", her welcoming smile replaced by fear as my fist connected with Einon's jaw.

Einon staggered back, Christiana slipping to her right. "Christiana! Wait!" The fingers of my left hand grazed her cloak, failing to find purchase. She was gone, running from the stable as though Satan himself chased her. I turned back to Einon, hitting him again, this time in the belly, then again, until he went down onto the straw of the floor, groaning. "Pack your things and leave this house by sundown. You were warned to leave my wife alone." I left Germaine in charge of evicting the young man and ran after Christiana.

She locked herself in our chamber and as I pounded on the door, I became angry with myself for acting so impulsively. I could have handled Einon better. I should have waited and dealt with him privately. I should not have let visions of him violating her come into my mind. "Dammit wife! Open this door!" I gave a few more kicks, and became aware of a sobbing behind me.

I turned, and saw Adele standing there, trembling and frightened. "You are scaring me." She whispered, eyes wide. In my mind, I had a sudden image of Christiana inside our chamber, crouched down against the wall opposite the door, her arms about her drawn up knees and an expression exactly like Adele's on her lovely face. All of my anger drained away then, leaving me tired and very cold. "I do not mean to."

"You always scare me. You used to be nice and now you are bad. I want to go home."

"This is your home, Adele."

"St. Anne's is home." She backed away from me. 

"Adele...." I licked my lips. I had to ask her the question that came to mind at her statement. I used to be nice.... "When did I start acting bad?"

"When the blonde girl came to stay."

I stared at her. I had always thought I was gentle with Adele after the accident soon after Beatrice arrived those long years ago, and now I find I have not been? I could not think of a thing to say, shaking my head and shrugging helplessly.

Adele's gaze went to the chamber door. "I like Christiana. She is nice to me." She gave me a determined frown. "If you send her away I will run away and never come back."

With that, Adele turned and ran back down the hall, disappearing around the corner, her feet slapping on the stone floor. The hallway was cold, so very chilly. I shivered and started down the stairs, meeting my mother on the way down. There was no approval in her eyes, that pride she had always had for me there gone. She said nothing, only stared stonily until I gritted out, "What?" through teeth I clenched to keep from losing my grip on the raging wave of feelings that were forcing their way through my body.

Her eyes narrowed. "Grow up. Just grow up, Etienne." She swept by me, back stiff. I watched her go, a noise escaping my throat before I could stop it. I collapsed there on the stair, halfway down, my legs refusing to hold me. I buried my hands in my hair and stared at the steps, my hold on my emotions tenuous at best. I would not lose control. I would not--

I lost control. I do not know how much time passed, how long I was sitting there alone on the stairs. When I managed to bring myself back under control, I found Lydia coming up the stairs to me. 

She sat beside me. "It hurts, does it not?" One of her hands clasped mine, squeezed gently. This was the first friendly gesture she has shown me since I called her a whore months ago and I returned the squeeze gladly.

"What hurts?" My voice was ragged and drained, nearly a whisper.

"Finding out you are not who you think you are. Or what you want desperately to be."

__

You have been weighed. Measured. And found wanting. 

I flinched, the image of Will Thatcher chained in the gaol flashing quickly in my mind. "It does." I agreed with her. What else could I do but agree? I was hurting, my personal view of myself now laying bleeding and broken on the floor, defeated and dying.

Lydia dug her nails into my hand and thrust me back as she stood. "I hope it tears you apart, Etienne. I hope it rips you to shreds and you know exactly what you have put everyone through for years." And once more, I was alone.

After that, I was calmer, quieter, and certain what I must do.

I must leave. I will wage war and perhaps I can regain myself from this swirling void Christiana drags me into. Perhaps I can find some way to put out this inferno, these licking flames that eat away at me. When I return, I will not be this way. She will not affect me in this manner.

This weakness must be shattered!

But I am already empty without her beside me, an ache that is a real physical pain, pricking my chest. The hours ahead look lonely without her to help fill them, my ears hungering for her voice, the only music I can hear without pain.

God help me, I am empty!


	20. Goodbye A Conclusion Reached

Title: Goodbye/A Conclusion Reached

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar leaves. Jocelyn writes to Christiana and a letter in return makes the friends happy. 

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: Two chapters in one.

~~~~~~~~~~

For four days, Etienne packs wagons and confers with his most trusted men, giving explicit instructions to the garrison that is staying behind. Since his decision to leave, he has been less tightly wound, an almost relaxed air to him. It is as though that breakdown was exactly what he needed, making him a different sort of man. I see him seldom during those days. He is awake before I wake and comes to bed after I am asleep. Meals are taken in spurts by the men, with myself, Lydia and Adele eating alone and the rest of the household later.

Patrice has gone, her chamber cleared out completely of her belongings. She will only be coming back to visit. I shall miss Patrice for sure. Her counsel over these months has been invaluable, helping me to adjust to my place here, her dramatics adding a bit of laughter to my days, laughter I had once despaired of having again. I am pleased to feel comfortable now calling her 'mother' aloud, and she teared up when I did so.

This family is now mine, and I love them all. Even crusty old Giles, who has also gone from this manor. He has taken his books and plans to visit a friend of his, another man of learning. I believe the two of them will have a fine time discussing medicine and philosophy and all those other subjects Giles has been reading up on. I am uncertain if I shall miss Giles exactly, for he is so much like Etienne. Arrogant, domineering, sarcastic....I had not thought such things could run in a family before, but those two prove it.

Patrice's words have made me think out what happened in the stable. I have witnessed many things in regards to my husband's foul temper. He is volatile, yes, but when that temper is fully released, he usually does have excellent reasons for being so angry. Someday I hope to discover the cause of his deepest anger, that hurt that was done to him and made him what he is. Looking back, I suppose he could have been angry with Einon. I had erred in asking that knight along, for the entire ride he tried to get me to agree to take a rest in the woods. Was he attempting a seduction of sorts? Possible I guess, though he had behaved like he was saying things that made him uncomfortable. He is gone now, ushered away and off our lands by several of Etienne's men.

Etienne leaves tomorrow and I try to remain awake in the large expanse of our bed, the sheets on his side of the bed cold. I am used to him beside me, his larger body wrapped about my smaller one, chest to my back, our legs tangled together. I am dreading the long number of nights ahead without him, not wanting him to go. Our row a few days ago has changed _my_ outlook as well as Etienne's manner. I came away a victor from that battle, stronger because of it and more certain of where we stand in this relationship. He is trying. He is meeting me, working through whatever demon holds him in tight grasp. _There is progress_. I glimpse a shining bright ray of hope in the tumultuous storm clouds about us. We are changing, the two of us, becoming attuned fully to one another and settled in to our life together. 

There was a time not too long ago when I would not have spoken to him as I had. I would not have demanded that he prove his trust in me, nor would I have even looked at him. This change is good. I vented my own anger and was not swept away in consequence. Our wills clashed and he proved his trust in me with two sentences.

How those sentences altered my mood! I was shaking and unable to fully comprehend the weight of his decision. As I contemplated that parchment Patrice set before me, joy began to trickle along my flesh until a tide of it poured over me. I could not stop smiling as I finally wrote. The letter I had begun in our chamber was slipped into the fire, burned to ashes and destroyed. 

He proved his trust and once more we start over, on even ground with one another, standing side by side. How many times will Etienne and I begin anew? As many times as necessary. I understand so many things now that I did not before.

Marriage is growing together, helping one another along that twisting road of life. And if that road ends in a cliff and we must find a way across the chasm to the other side, we shall do so together, up and down, back and forth, through every high and low on our journey. I cannot fear that journey. I cannot fear my husband. I trust him to protect me. Will he trust me? _Does_ he trust me? I believe so. I begin to believe him and I do not, with the entirety of my being, wish him to leave, not now when we have reached this turn. There is a fear in my mind that he will be killed in this latest war he rides off to. I try my best not to think of the possibility, yet it is there nonetheless, a reality I cannot ignore. It could happen. I could be made a widow and all our progress together will be for nothing.

I roll onto my side as our door opens, Etienne coming in, creeping on stealthy feet about the room. He places the bar on the door, undresses and comes to bed. I stay still, his weight settling behind me on the mattress.

"Christiana." His voice is a low, rough whisper.

"Hmm?"

Warm fingers trail down the bare flesh of my arm, then back up, brushing my hair from my shoulder and caressing my back. The sheet is inched away, revealing my nakedness to him. I have decided to dispense with wearing a nightdress when he is here. It is easier to not wear one than to repair them over and over when he becomes impatient with the yards of delicate fabric. "You are not sleeping."

With a small smile, I glance at him. "No. You leave tomorrow and I have not had a last chance to seduce you." I want to hold him to me, his head on my breast, and never let him go away. I cannot do so, cannot find the words to tell him I want him to stay. Not that he would stay. He has made up his mind to do this and no words from my lips will convince him not to go.

His lips touch my shoulder, kissing a line along it. "You seduce me with every glance, every touch...." That weary look he wore a few days ago is lingering on his handsome face. 

It is on the tip of my tongue to admit my love for him, but I cannot force the words out. They stick in my throat. I am afraid to speak them aloud.

I am urged onto my back, my husband leaning over me. His mouth takes mine as his hands travel my body. A desperate urgency takes us and I am caught up in it. The only thought in my mind is the here and now. Tomorrow does not matter and yesterday does not exist. He is my husband and this may be the last time we are together.

When dawn begins to color the horizon, we part to bathe and dress. All too soon, Etienne is gone. I remain on the catwalk until I can see no more trace of the army in the distance. A sigh slips from me. I am Lady here and it is my duty in Etienne's absence to run this household. It is time to put all Patrice taught me to use.

~~~~~~~~~~

'_Dear Christiana,_

Kate has at long last given in to her attraction to Wat. It has been building, quite obviously, for awhile now. Can you picture Kate flustered? Well, Wat's teasing has her that way. You know how Wat is. When he is in a good mood, he is incorrigible and when he is in a bad mood, he is psychotic.

We were sitting by the fire when it happened, eating a late meal. Kate had cooked, a rich stew she supplemented with wild herbs, and some fresh fish Will caught. We have all been taking turns cooking, instead of just Roland and Wat doing that chore. Roland has been helping me during the times I must cook. Learning to do so is a trial, but a fun one.

Wat was in his fifth bowl of the stew, when he looked up, bliss on his face, at Kate beside him. "Kate. You can cook."

"Well of course I can." This was said matter-of-factly, as though it was ridiculous to think she could not cook.

__

"You never told me you could cook." I kid you not, dear friend, Wat actually set aside his dish with food still in it. That gave us all pause. Wat not eating? Was he feverish?

"You never asked me." She replied.

Wat swooped down on her, his hands clasping her face. Kate did not stand a chance. Her eyes widened and hands pushed at him, but not for long. After only a few seconds, she was kissing him back. Will and Roland grinned like idiots and our herald Stephen looked most confused. I myself am happy for them. They disappeared together later and in the morning, Wat held Kate to him with such tenderness that tears came to my eyes.

Although, I cry at nearly everything these days. This baby has made me the weepiest of women. 

Oh Christiana, I have come to love them all! I have come to love this life and understand why Will has such a fervor for it. Tournaments are all he has known, first in the fashion of servant and now as knight. And I, I cannot deny him the happiness he finds in competition. It is unthinkable to do so. I have learned to love the spontaneity and the simplicity of traveling and living in tents. Who would have thought that I, of all people, could let go of those things that trapped me in my father's house, the clothes and the jewels? I am still a flower and my petals are still bright, but I am a different sort of flower and happy to be so. I believe this will be our life. The winter months will be at our house and the summer months at Tournament.

Are you well? I was sad that your husband saw fit to leave Tournament so quickly, for I was enjoying the time you and I shared talking. Your letters continue to speak of your unceasing efforts to be a good wife to him. My heart cries for you, dearest friend. I have told Will I do not understand Adhemar's view. Why does he still keep you and I from visiting? He let us visit in the galley. He does not object to our letters. The conversation went thus:

"You do not understand, Jocelyn, because you are not a man." As though I have no ability to comprehend! That look he exchanged with Wat and Roland infuriated me.

"Then explain it and I shall understand."

Will turned his head, those blond locks falling about his face in a most appealing way. "I will try." He motioned Kate over. "Say Kate and I are close friends, spending time together without others around to see us. Her closest male relative suddenly decides she should marry Wat. It is a good match for her and her family, but Wat has a bit of a temper--"

"A bit!" Kate quipped with a smile.

"Imagine that." Roland drawled. "Wat with a temper."

Wat gave them both a dirty look, eyes narrowing and lips pursing.

Will ignored them. "Everyone knows he has a temper and he is a bit feared for it. Now, he is going into this burned from a previous attempt to make a match and his assumption of Kate's character based on our friendship is not a kind one. His jealous tendencies stoke his temper and vice-versa, until the thought of Kate even glimpsing me drives him mad."

"Jealousy?" I asked, shaking my head.

"Yes." Will frowned. "And no." He put his hands on his hips.

"It's complicated." Wat said, drawing Kate to him and slipping his arm about her waist.

"But that does not answer my question. If I visited her there, he would have no reason to fear Roland and Christiana together--"

Roland cleared his throat. "Does he know she helped you and Will to meet?"

His question confused me. It did not seem to go with the conversation What did Will and I have to do with you and Roland meeting? "Yes. He discovered that somehow. Why?" I looked at him.

__

"Simple. He knows you do not approve of him for her. That is obvious. You are not silent in that opinion. He could think you would try and repay him for the hurts he did Will by helping Christiana and I to meet. You visiting her would open up the possibility of a meeting being arranged. All that would need to happen is for me to hide down the road a ways and for the two of you to go for a ride alone, with no escorts, conveniently passing where I hid. It is safer for him to deny you the visit and keep her close under his watch."

"That is the working of a low mind!"

And do you know that all three of those men gave sheepish grins at that.

Roland sighed. "He is protecting what he sees as his. He will do that by whatever means he deems necessary. A man does that. It is part of what makes a man a man, that urge to protect his property and his family. He cannot be faulted for that. He will keep her safe."

"She is not property Roland."

Kate shook her head. "It makes sense. He is afraid she will betray him with another man."

__

And that was our conversation and conclusion. Your husband fears betrayal.

I pray for you daily,

Much love,

Jocelyn' 

I roll the letter and seal it, then give it to our messenger. He must know all the different ways to Adhemar's house with his eyes shut by now, with all the letters I have sent to Christiana. I watch him ride away from our camp. We are so close to the house, that I long to go there, but I ignore the pang as I have learned to do. 

I pick up the piece of embroidery Roland has started me on and stare at it. It is the opinion of the men that I need to have rest and not move about much. They are all afraid I shall go into labor at an inopportune moment. Strangely, Wat is the worst. Every time I shift to try and find a comfortable position, his eyes get wide and he asks if it is time, or rather, if I am 'dropping the kid yet'. I am tempted to moan a bit and tell him yes, but am afraid he would run away from camp and not return until he thought it was safe.

Kate is the only one who is not pressing me to remain quiet and still. After my first few months, where it became apparent that I have the constitution of a horse, her concern for my so-called 'delicate condition' lessened. She is always eager to feel the baby move and I wonder if she is wanting children of her own. The way she and Wat are behaving now, I would not be surprised if one is made soon.

I pluck the needle from the fabric and make a half-hearted stitch, then another. It takes me awhile, but I do manage to make headway on the design. I am almost enjoying myself, sitting in the sun sewing, when I hear a horse in the distance. Will joins me. We wait to see if the rider will come our way, my husband's hand rubbing the ache in my lower back.

The rider does come to us, and I see it is our own messenger. The boy comes to us. "I had gotten only a little ways and a messenger from Adhemar's house met me. A letter for you, my Lady. I sent your letter on with him."

I take the letter and break the seal, unrolling it.

'_Dear Jocelyn and friends,_

I am writing to invite you to visit our home as soon as you can manage to arrive. My husband says you may bring who you choose from your household. I realize Tournament is still going on, so I will understand if you must decline the invitation. Please let me know as soon as you can. I hope to see you all soon.

Love,

Christiana'

Tears cloud my vision as our household gathers around me. From Will, Wat, Roland and Kate, to the staff we have brought to Tournament. They all drop their chores and wait for whatever Christiana has written. I grin. "We're invited to visit as soon as we can make arrangements."

Kate hugs me. "All of us?"

I read the letter aloud so they may hear and even Roland manages a smile. This visit is hard-won and all know it. We begin packing within the hour, or rather everyone but me begins packing. I am not allowed to lift anything heavier than the sewing bag Roland fashioned for me. Roland will accompany most of the staff home. Kate and Wat will go with us to Adhemar's home. Later, I seek Roland and find him alone, resting on a fallen log watching the sun set.

"You could go with us. He did not forbid you to come."

He sighs, one hand stroking his beard. "I will not make trouble for her." He pats the log beside him. "Sit. You should not stand so long in your condition."

I sit, though I do not feel like doing so. "Really, Roland, I am not as delicate as you all see me as."

"Yes, you are. Will thinks you are, so you are."

Interesting reasoning. I train my gaze on the brilliant reds and oranges streaking the horizon and ask the question I have been wanting to ask for days. "Do you still love her?"

"Yes." He replies simply. "I shall always love her, but...I have let her go. In another time, maybe she would have been mine. She is his and I must accept it and move on."

"Wise words." Glancing at him, I see a sadness gleaming in his eyes, but also acceptance. He has accepted what has occurred. Finally.

"You would not think Wat capable of giving such beautiful counsel, would you?" Roland gives a tiny, gruff laugh. "He cornered me a few days ago, told me that he 'thought Will was stupid in love, but I beat a dead horse while it's decomposing and nearly a skeleton.' He said to let her go and get over her, as she was obviously not meant for me. I have been thinking since then about it. I cannot live my life mourning for what cannot be."

He seems different somehow. Peaceful. Happy. "You are a good man, Roland."

He makes no comment, but stands and holds out a hand to me. "Come, Lady. If you are to travel tomorrow, you need rest. Let us return to camp."

I go. 

~~~~~~~~~~

I have reread Christiana's letters with Jocelyn's help, my reading skills improving in leaps and bounds with each one. We started with that first letter and have worked our way through them all, even the one Christiana wanted kept apart. I insisted on that one. So much was clear in just that one letter, from Adhemar's character to Christiana's own sense of inferiority beside Jocelyn. The girl actually thinks she could not also inspire a man to poetry. Did she not listen to Roland at all?

Reading those many pages, I see what both Christiana and Jocelyn do not, though the fact is plain in Christiana's own words. Adhemar has most definitely lost it. Not his mind, though it can appear that way. No, as I suspected at Tournament, he has lost his heart, fully and with no return, to his wife. The progression of his feelings is laid out in those things he did, the words he spoke. Christiana holds him prisoner as certainly as Jocelyn holds me. While I am most willing, I see in Christiana's letters that he is fighting it, not willing to admit he has already lost the battle and that he has learned to love.

Count Etienne Adhemar, victor on the battlefield and great soldier is fighting the one battle he cannot win: the battle of love.

Poor man. I sympathize with his struggles. He may well be too proud to go against his instincts in proving his affection. Still, he did concede a visit. That is something. I do not look forward to the inevitable strained days of this visit. I doubt he and I can ever be friends. I know I can be civil however. What I have repeatedly explained to Jocelyn is the truth: I cannot hate the man himself, only the things he does. She does not understand my view, but I do not expect her to.

We ride to the Adhemar lands, leaving Roland in charge of the household. I do not like leaving him behind, but he insisted he would rather go home than join us. While I am certainly glad he is over Christiana and nearly back to his old self, I miss his teasing quips. Wat and Kate accompany us, along with a few soldiers, a concession I am making to the reports of thieves along this road. I would not see us waylaid before we reach our destination.

I glance at the two walking a short ways behind us. Wat and Kate. I never would have predicted those two would get together. The possibility never entered my mind. Hot tempered Wat with practical Kate? They do compliment each other though. Kate can cool Wat's temper with a few words when she chooses, and Wat can rile her up and embarrass her faster than anyone. Kate says they will not marry though. She is amenable to birthing a few babes, but no marriage for her.

Wat was upset about that for awhile, until she explained herself to him. It seems that if she marries a man not a blacksmith, she will lose her business. None of us want that and since Wat refuses to consider taking up the trade, they shall stay unmarried.

Now I glance at Jocelyn. She has curled up in the wagon and fallen asleep. How she can sleep with that rough ride I do not know, but she is sound asleep on her back, covered by a light blanket. I am glad. She is nearly eight months along now, her belly huge. She would cry to hear me use that word, but it is accurate. Kate insists Jocelyn must be carrying twins for her stomach to be so big. I do not care how many babes are in there, just that they, and Jocelyn are healthy.

I will be glad when she is no longer pregnant and I can stop cringing whenever she asks me a question. It is horrible. I no longer know what is going to make her cry, since anything at anytime could cause an outburst of fresh tears. Her emotions have been raging since month four or so and Jocelyn has gotten it into her head that I think she is fat. Explaining that she is carrying baby weight does no good. She replies that she is only a big, fat, huge, baby carrier.

Wat does not help matters. He told her she _was_ a big, fat, huge, baby carrier and that crying about it was not going to help that. By the look Kate gave him, I do not think he uncrossed _her_ legs that night. Now, he has given to asking Jocelyn if she is dropping the kid yet. _Dropping the kid_. Sometimes I wonder if _Wat _was dropped.

My gaze drifts back to the road before us. In the distance, the walls of our destination are visible. A groan slips from me, luckily too low for anyone to hear. I do not wish to have to visit politely with Adhemar. We have little in common and I have no desire to talk enough with him to discover if we have any common interests at all. God help me.

I will bite my tongue and behave for both Christiana and Jocelyn. Is that not a man's lot? Women control us more than any of us would admit. A stony stare from Jocelyn and I know I have crossed some line somewhere. I trip over myself to make things right. Love is constant apology at times and concession most of the time from one or the other. How else can two people, as different as God could dream up, live together in that institution marriage? Man and woman cannot be selfish and live in wedded bliss.

My mind returns to those letters. From what Christiana wrote, she has made many concessions since last fall and Adhemar but a few. Now, it would seem as though she has done more for their marriage, yet I must consider the sort of concessions that man has made. Changing his mind and wedding her properly. Inviting a troupe of musicians to reside at the manor year round. His apology. Letting Christiana and Jocelyn speak in the galley. And this final one of our visit. His concessions have all been huge when one knows the man. I imagine each one required quite a bit from him in the way of pride, each one chipping away at that state.

When Adhemar sets his sight on some goal, he attains it, one way or another. To go to her -- after swearing he would not wait for the priestly blessing -- and put forth a plan of a ceremony for the next day must have gnawed at his gut. His goal had been to bed her that night and he set it aside.

His dislike for musicians is well known, but not the reason. Few know the exact reason and Christiana did not say in her letters why he habitually tosses troupes from his hall. However, he gave her the gift of music, something she adores. The girl loves to dance. Even Jocelyn does not love dancing as much as Christiana. I suppose her skill at the dances makes up for the fact that she is hopeless at an instrument and cannot sing a tune to save her life. I once heard her singing and it made me wince.

The apology. Adhemar does not apologize. At all. A man such as he sees no reason why he should have to give apology for his actions or words. He thinks others should just develop a thicker skin or simply do things his way. It is a selfish view and the fact that he did go to Christiana with an apology the next day suggests two things to me, the first being that he cares how she feels. He cares. What he said hurt her and he knew it. He tried to make her feel better. The second is that he had already begun to change. The old Adhemar would not have thought to go to her.

For Christiana and Jocelyn to speak face to face must have been terrifying for him. I would have been such if I was he. Knowing Christiana and Roland were close months earlier and that Roland was likely with us, to let them speak and possibly plot a meeting between the two....I do not know if I would have been so generous to allow a meeting with Jocelyn were I he. Truly. But he did, even if he did panic a couple days later. Their flight from Tournament points to a case of panic. He was uncertain what could develop and wanted her to himself. Just as I thought.

And our visit. I wonder what has transpired to cause him to allow us to come to his home without restrictions of our staff. At best, is Christiana pregnant and he feels he can lower his guard now? At worst, does he plan some attack to even the score between us? I do not believe the latter to be true. So much time has gone by, yet I would gamble to rule it out fully. My eyes lift to scan the walls as we approach. 

I hear Jocelyn waking, giving that little sigh she always does before opening her eyes. That sigh is endearing, as though she is consciously putting aside the dream world. She clears her throat. "Where are we?"

"Almost there." I point, still staring at the walls. This visit is too good to be true, but I will not deny Jocelyn, _cannot_ deny her. Christiana would not send an invitation unless it was approved and genuine, I must remember that. Still, I do fear some treachery on Adhemar's part, some little spiteful turn that Christiana is ignorant of. I do not fear for Jocelyn. No. He is smitten with Christiana. I mean a final lash at me for beating him last year, the settling of a score man-to-man. 

We ride into the courtyard. Adhemar's home is large, much larger than Jocelyn's father's house, the walls stretching out left to right. Christiana is waiting there, two women flanking her. One is older, the other younger. I presume them to be Adele and Lydia. The older woman is fidgeting, as a young child might, the younger glancing to Christiana.

Jocelyn struggles to stand in the wagon and finally scoots on her rear until she can swing her feet over the edge of the back. She is grinning, waving her hands at me. "Hurry up, Will. Get me out of here."

I dismount and head for her, gently helping her from the wagon and brushing stray pieces of straw from her dress. She bounces on her feet as I do this, obviously impatient, and as soon as I release her, she moves forward as fast as she can waddle with her balance all messed up from her belly. Christiana meets her and they hug. "I have missed you!" 

Christiana reacts in kind, the two giggling and talking at the same time, the rest of us in the courtyard forgotten. Wat and Kate finally catch up, Kate laughing. I cross my arms, eyeing the women that were with Christiana. They look uncomfortable and uncertain, so I go to them. "Hello. I am Will Thatcher." At an elbow in her ribs from the younger woman, the older slowly extends her hand to me. I take it and press a kiss to the air above its back.

She pulls her hand away quickly and wipes it on her skirt. "My name is Adele. I do not live here usually." Adele is a pretty woman, but I know from Christiana's letters that she is the one who is mentally a child. What happened to cause that, I wonder?

The younger is just as cautious, managing a smile when I kiss her hand. "Lydia."

"It is a pleasure, Lydia." I glance about the courtyard. Still no Adhemar. I venture to ask. "And your brother...?"

Lydia stands up a little straighter, squaring her shoulders. "He left to join Prince Edward in battle last week. He will not be home for months I presume." My surprise must show, for she gives a genuine smile. "You could not be more relieved than I, Sir William. Believe me."

Christiana finally remembers herself and we enter the manor.


	21. Closer and Closer

Title: Closer and Closer

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Christiana and Jocelyn have a talk. 

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is a beautiful day. The sun is shining and the birds are singing and I have come to realize that I am pregnant. Is it not funny how those three words can change so many things? I am pregnant. I have been feeling queasy and sleepy for so long that it seemed like a natural thing to be so. Well, it is natural for being pregnant. There was no suspicion in my mind, no worry. My thoughts have been so taken up with Patrice leaving and dealing with Etienne and his moods, that I did not take notice of my condition.

Expecting. With child.

I feel a grin tugging at my lips and give in to the impulse, pulling the fabric of my shift taut over my belly. Still fairly flat, but the rounding will come. I look forward to that, to feeling the tiny life inside me move.

It has been lovely to listen to Jocelyn discuss her pregnancy. She is not shy about giving me the problems along with the joys. She mentions her feet and ankles swelling, mild insomnia now that she is closer to being due, aches in her lower back and legs, and having to use the privy more often. But the joys she says....They "outweigh the nuisances. There is nothing that compares to the first time you feel your baby move."

Oh, I cannot wait to tell Etienne he is to be a father!

In my mind, I picture him holding our child in his arms. This will please him. It will please him to see proof of his virility, to have an heir. I splay my fingers over my belly. Should I pray for a boy or a girl? He will want a boy of course, and I do yearn for a boy that looks just like his father. Then again, a tiny, delicate girl would be nice too. I know enough of this family now to realize that any girl will be protected fiercely. But a boy....I shake my head. God will decide the matter.

Hopefully, Etienne will send a letter soon. He promised to let me know by messenger that he had arrived safely with Edward. As soon as that message arrives, I shall send a return one with my news. The thought firm in my mind, I pull a purple dress from my trunk and, feeling whimsical, add a pink surcoat over it instead of the matching purple one. I do not bother braiding my hair before leaving the chamber.

Hours later, when my guests are up and about, Jocelyn comes into the solar where I spend much of my time. Her face is a little puffy, but there is a radiant glow to her skin, the glow of a pregnant woman. I wonder if I am glowing as well. No one but Sarah has said anything.

Jocelyn sits in a chair and shifts the pillows about behind her before opening the bag she carried in with her. A piece of fabric and a bundle of thread is brought out, Jocelyn laying the fabric on her belly and separating a roll of red from the bundle. The bag falls from the arm of the chair, Jocelyn peering at it, then her belly, and mumbling, "It can just stay down there."

"You have taken up sewing?" I ask with raised brows, watching her take the needle from the fabric and thread it. She is concentrating hard, tongue caught between her teeth and eyes nearly crossed as she stabs the thread at the needle eye. When the needle is finally threaded, she gives an exaggerated sigh of relief, wiping her hand over her forehead.

"Not willingly, I assure you." Jocelyn unfolds the cloth, showing me the delicate floral pattern she has been working on. The stitches are not neat or even. It looks like a child's attempt. She flashes a quick, impudent grin at me.

I snort. "Who are you trying to fool with those stitches?" I know for a fact that she is adequate with a needle and thread, though hates the task and considers it a chore. Jocelyn would much rather design clothes than sew them.

"Roland. He thinks I am hopeless at embroidery. We sit and sew together, Will's bright idea. Will seems to think I am some delicate little thing of late. My inept sewing has taken Roland's mind off of..." She stops, pulls the cloth back and knots the thread. "I tell him about my dress ideas and he tries them. The last project he made was a dress for Kate. It was a simple design, something I thought Kate would like. She actually tried to give it back to us. I had to do some fast talking to get her to accept the gift."

"You are devious, Jocelyn." She took Will's plan to keep her still and devised a way to keep Roland from thinking so much of me. Yes, I am aware of just how much he cared for me.

"I have to be something, do I not? I design nothing sensational, just practical and give Roland the little extra encouragement to pursue his gift. He is a tailor at heart, Christiana, not a squire."

"You hear no argument from me on that, do you? But he is a squire. _Will's_ squire." I sit back in my chair.

She sobers, takes a stitch on the cloth. "I know. Not everyone can change their stars or wants to. Will has told me that. I cannot ignore Roland's gift though. It would be criminal to do so."

"You do not have to ignore it, just do not push him. Promise you will not push."

She shrugs. "I suppose."

"Jocelyn."

"Oh fine." Setting the embroidery on the chair arm, she leans forward a little, hands rubbing at her lower back. "I promise." A grimace crosses her face. "This baby has not stopped rolling over since I woke. If he is not kicking one way, he is kicking another."

I take a couple slow stitches. "I am pregnant too." The words slip out before I can stop them. I glance at her, my joy tugging at me.

Her eyes go wide and she pauses in her digging at her back muscles. "No. How far?"

I jab the needle in the fabric and toss it onto the table beside me, readjusting into a more comfortable position in the chair, my legs tucked beneath me. "Three or four months. I did not even realize until Sarah asked how Etienne reacted. She said she was surprised he had not ordered a celebration."

She grins at me. "You did not notice? Christiana!"

"I have been rather busy --" I attempt an explanation, Jocelyn cutting me off with a laugh.

"No excuse. There is no excuse for not noticing what is happening in your own body. And he did not notice either?" She stops, grin fading slightly, questioning turn to her brow. "Is there a reason he would not have noticed?"

I nod. "Things have been....There was a letter I did not send that explained that. I ended up sending the invitation instead."

She drops the needlework to the floor, with no care for the loose needle that will likely be lost among the rushes. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes and no. I've looked back many times on the incident I wrote of and I think I may have misunderstood what was really happening. The man who was involved is gone now and before the army left, Germaine warned me not to let the man approach me if he returns here while they are gone. He said Etienne was protecting me, though it may not have seemed that way."

Jocelyn shakes her head, tucking her hair behind her ears. "What on earth are you talking about? What man? What happened?"

I have missed her concern. I have missed the attention she gives in conversation. Our brief time in the galley at the first Tournament only served to strengthen my pangs of loneliness. I draw in a deep breath. "I went riding one day. Mother was busy --"

"Mother?" She queries, holding a hand up to stop me.

"Patrice. It slipped out one day right before she left and she started crying she was so happy."

"That is wonderful, Christiana. I am happy you feel comfortable enough with her to call her such. Your own mother was poor at her role." As we speak, she is constantly shifting in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

"Anyway, Etienne wants me to always ride with another person, so I took one of the knights who was not busy. Lydia was with Adele. She does not like riding and Adele will not go out for long, so I needed an escort. Einon was there and I had him go with me. Well," I shift also, crossing one leg over the other and swinging it. "Etienne came into the stable when we returned and while he was looking right at me, his face tightened, that angry look he gets, and he hit Einon. Broke his jaw. Einon was not very far from me when he did it. I thought he was going to hit me."

"You wrote that Adhemar...your husband," she amends, "does not hit women."

"And so he does not. I ran and he followed and...hours later we had a discussion in the hall with the entire house watching us." I finger the sleeve of my dress. "I have never seen so much emotion from him before. It was like he had let go of all those barriers and let himself feel. I put the letter I had written to you in the fire and wrote the invitation instead." I shrug. "He has been wearing himself out training and not coming to me as often as he did. That is why he would not have noticed. Two whole weeks went by without him touching me once. It was almost like before we married."

"But this was all settled before he left, yes?"

"Mostly. I wish I had known my state earlier. Perhaps he would not have left for war."

"Perhaps." Jocelyn clears her throat. "Have you considered that he could be...." She sighs, makes frustrated noises as she thinks, and finally goes on. "Could he love you at all?"

I stare at her. It is always a possibility I suppose. "I do not know."

"I have been thinking since Tournament and I have begun to wonder if he has changed. He was so gentle with you at Banquet, so courteous."

"He was courteous to you in the galley a year ago."

"Courteous in the caring fashion, as a man is to a woman he cares for. Not polite courtesy, Christiana. He looks at you as though you are the only woman in the world."

I give a short laugh. "I wish."

Jocelyn studies me, her gaze strangely intense. "You truly love him."

"He is my husband."

"The two do not usually go hand in hand. Sometimes, but not usually." She sits up straighter. "Enough. If you are happy, then I am happy for you. If he makes you happy, I am glad, for I would have you happy."

And so that ended our conversation on the matter. The visit is a good one. I have let Kate talk with our own blacksmith, seeing no problem in it, though I am certain Etienne would have some choice words to say on it were he here. The man was hesitant to listen until he learned she was the maker of that famous light armor. Now Kate is welcome at his forge any time. Adele has taken a liking for Kate also, spending her time following her about. Kate is good with her, not behaving -- as many people do -- as though it is a chore to speak to a grown woman like she is a child. Which Adele is mentally. I still hope to discover what happened to Adele to cause her condition.

Will spends his time studying Etienne's house and way of running it, training in the mornings with the garrison left here. He seems to be enjoying himself, though he has not said one way or the other. Wat is the vocal one. He teases Jocelyn and makes eyes at Kate, then slips into the kitchen to annoy the kitchen staff. Any annoyance on their part is pretend, for Wat is adored by the women there. They all love a man who can eat. And Wat certainly can eat. Will has been known to remark that if Wat did not eat constantly, we would need to bury him, for his gluttonous eating is who he is.

Three weeks have flown by without a letter from Etienne and I am becoming worried, though Richard, whom Etienne left behind, assures me word will come in due time. I am crossing the hall to discuss the days chores with the maids, when I hear Richard's voice calling me.

"My Lady! My Lady!" His urgency and distress are obvious as he runs to me. "You must come see this!"

I nod and follow him out into the large courtyard and up the inner stair along the wall that surrounds the manor, emerging onto the catwalk that the guards use to patrol the walls. A gasp escapes me as I see what has him so worked up. An army is coming towards us, but I am certain it is not a friendly one. I see smoke rising from fires set on the edge of Etienne's lands. My heart aches for the people out there. This army has been well-timed. We are low on guards. Etienne took most with him when he left. Thankfully though, our larder is still well stocked and the well is within the walls.

"Do you know what to do?" I recall seeing the gate closed and mentally kick myself at the question. Etienne has trained his men well in all areas of his concern. His military attitude will be our best asset here. Even with few men we stand a chance of holding off the invaders just because of the training he drilled into them.

Richard nods. "Yes, my Lady."

I look to my left and right on the catwalk. The men gathered are nodding their heads. I recognize each one and remember a few of their names. Alain. Mason. Stephen. Brys. Royce. Some youthful, some older. There is little in the way of fear on the older faces. They weathered an attack when Etienne's father was alive. This house has faced attack before and not been taken. These men will die if they must to keep this family, and all those inside the walls, safe. It is their duty and duty is something I well understand.

"Then do what you must. I will inform our guests of the company approaching."

I leave them to their work. Fear of the future makes my hands tremble. If this army succeeds in overtaking us, what will happen to me and my child? What will happen when Etienne returns and finds and ruined home? _No. Do not think like that. These walls will hold. And you will see Etienne again._


	22. Battle: Inside the Walls

Title: Battle: Inside the Walls

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: The battle inside the manor.

Rating: PG-13, for violence.

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

~~~~~~~~~~

When did I, Will Thatcher, become a soldier I wonder as I yank a husky man from the slender, cringing form of Adhemar's twin sister Adele and slice at his throat with the knife from my belt. He falls with a gurgle, blood spurting from the wound. I grab Adele's hand and drag her to her feet, pressing that dagger in her hands and pushing her in the direction Lydia and Jocelyn are finally taking. "Go!" I yell, pulling my sword from the scabbard even as I whirl to face the approaching men. Steel meets steel and I am glad that the sword is my natural talent.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Kate swinging one of those tools of her trade viciously at a man's head. Wat is near her and Christiana has brought her bow inside the manor, her aim surprisingly accurate to me. Dimly, I wonder if Adhemar has been teaching her to use the bow.

Fear for my wife, and for those in the manor fills me, giving me the blessed determination to fight until I either win or am incapacitated. My sword slices through flesh and I know later I shall be sickened by the killing I have been forced to do today. It is necessary though. All of our lives depend upon this, for I have no doubt that this invader will kill any man who could possibly rise up against him.

Any man, woman and child who can fight is doing so. These people do not hate their lord. No, they work these lands and serve him in the manor and call him a fair master, if a harsh one in dealing judgment for a crime. For no other reason than that, my opinion on him must further be scrutinized. I can hate some of the things Adhemar has done, but I cannot hate them all. I will fight to save his home and his family in his absence, and God help me we will succeed.

~~~~~~~~~~

"This way!" I call to Jocelyn. Adele is already to the hidden back gate, but Jocelyn is panting, exhausted. I say a quick prayer for Christiana, still inside the manor, fighting for her life while I go for help. "Come on, Jocelyn!" I hiss.

She moves closer, pain flickering across her face. "My back hurts, Lydia. I cannot ride. I will only hold you back." Stepping to the stone wall, she slumps against it. "You will have to leave me. Get horses for you two and go. I will be fine."

There is uncertainty in her eyes, but her voice is strong. In this moment, she reminds me of my mother. I nod. "Head south. There is a village and if our name is mentioned, you will be treated well." Adele opens the gate and we three go through it, Jocelyn moving in the direction I told her.

How in the hell am I going to steal two horses? Or rather, how am I going to ride one? My fear of the beasts is not generally known. Few people are aware that I cannot ride a horse and thus few know the reason for my fear. Adele was not the only one Beatrice hurt. Beatrice was with us for many years, from the time she, Adele and Etienne were six until they were sixteen, learning manners and duties from my mother. Right before the woman left us, she took me out with her, supposedly giving me a riding lesson, though I was very young at the time. She whipped my horse and I fell. I was nearly trampled. I can still pull from memory the sight of horses hooves above my face ready to smash down and crush me.

Adele is quiet beside me, her screams and cries of fear long faded into silence necessary for our survival. We creep in the opposite direction that Jocelyn took, working our way through the woods and around the walls that surround our home. The times we both played right here at hide and seek aid us in our endeavor to be noiseless and hidden and we reach the edge of the army. We crouch in the bushes.

Directly before us is a group of horses, a man I recognize standing by them. It is Sir Einon. He does not look happy, staring at the men who are watching the fighting at the gate. I stand to get a better look, brushing aside Adele's fingers as she tries to keep me down. The man turns and I freeze. His jaw does not look quite right, and I recall that my brother hit him....

His gaze widens, flicking to the men before striding to us. He motions me down, coming around the bush. "Believe me, I did not want this to happen." He whispers with difficulty. "She specifically told me to flirt with your sister-in-law, to sow doubt in your brother's mind or my sister would die. I did so and left when I was told, thinking my part in her schemes done." His head shakes left and right, eyes pleading with me to understand. "I was wrong. She had Owen rape and kill my sister so I would be...motivated to tell of the defenses set up here."

I look at where the horses are, knowing full well that my own gaze is as pleading as his for another matter entirely. "We need two horses." I whisper back, gripping Adele's hand with my own. "Please. You say you did not want this to happen, so help us!"

After a long, agonizing moment, he nods and leaves the bush. I peer through the foliage. He adjusts his trousers as though returning from natures call and, after ascertaining that none is watching, he leads two steeds to us. I am certain we shall be caught, but am pleasantly surprised when we manage to make it through the woods and a quarter of the way to Merrick's without being followed. I hang on to the horse for dear life.

We must reach Merrick's. He has an army large enough to counter the attack and knowledge enough of our home to be dangerous to the invaders. I pray we reach there in time for his forces to save the household, but will he help? I was so confident months ago that he loved me and wanted me as his wife, yet I am not so certain now. Was I exactly what Etienne said I was? A release? Will Merrick ignore my plea for help?

We shall see.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

It is a strange feeling to kill a man, to know that you have been directly responsible for the death of another. I have no choice though. They are invading my home. Can I be blamed in the hereafter for fighting for my life? No, I do not think God will punish me for that.

I am glad that a part of my studies with Patrice were the bow and arrow. It is the weapon she favors and the one she once used in a previous attack on this house. She thought I had an aptitude for it and I am very glad she was correct. Because of her instruction and the time she drilled the use of it into me, my movements are automatic, seamless. I let arrow after arrow fly, retreating from the catwalk with Richard hurrying me along past those who have already given their lives. Dead, honorable men lying cold and still in the dirt.

There is a loud creak, the gate splintering and a jagged hole appearing in the center. These invaders came well prepared for their attack. They had it planned out where to strike. They give a triumphant yell and, as we hurry into the manor, the wood of the gate groans a final time under the combined opposing pressures of the battering ram and the barricade we had erected and cracks open. Splinters fly out, Richard swinging his cape up to shield me from them as we run. Men spill into the courtyard. I hear the ring of steel crashing together.

Inside the manor, we have a few moments to gather ourselves. I look at my friends and my family. Lydia knows what to do. I have already told her to lead those who wish to leave out through the gate hidden in the back wall. The woods are thick and I realize it is a gamble that they will not be caught. They could well die even before reaching the gate. It all depends on this invader and if he has surrounded the manor.

"This is not your home. Go." I say to Will, Jocelyn, Kate and Wat, but even as I say the words, they are shaking their heads in refusal. The bar on the hall door is giving way. We do not have much time.

"I am a knight." Will replies. "I will not leave while any are in danger."

Kate and Wat second the resolve to stay and Jocelyn remains silent. "You go, Jocelyn. For your baby." 

She stares at me, her lips thinning into a thin line before she shakes her head. "No Christiana."

And the door gives. The invaders are in my home and we are swept into the fight. Through my own exertions with my bow, I vaguely see Adele being attacked and Will saving her, Jocelyn throwing anything she can get her hands on at the enemy and Kate and Wat hurling themselves into the thick of battle with enthusiasm, as though they fight for their own home and not mine. Richard is struck, blood on his face and clothes. I hear Will yell and then we are retreating across the room opposite the path Lydia, Adele and Jocelyn are taking. We engage our enemy, attempting to draw them away from those who flee.

I am running low on arrows, exhaustion beginning to claim me. I cannot keep this up forever and there seem to be an endless stream of men coming through the door into the hall. I stumble, turning, confused by the many bodies fighting. Who is friend? Who is foe? How does Etienne keep those two separate in his mind when he is at war? Strong hands catch me, drag me back to my feet and I am drawn to a lean hard body, a knife to my throat.

"Halt!" An arrogant voice calls out. Gradually, the fighting ceases, first with Kate and Richard, Richard calling to Etienne's remaining guards to cease. Will and Wat are the last to stop, Will dropping his sword to the stone floor, a look of such failure on his face that it is painful to see. Wat, disregarding the stillness of the others, charges towards us in a suicide run. He is grabbed, subdued by a heavy blow to his head, his wiry body sagging with a boneless limp quality to the floor.

It is done. We are conquered.


	23. Coming Home

Title: Coming Home 

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar accepts his feelings and heads for home. 

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: Pinpointing exactly when the movie was set was quite a chore. I had to take into account when Chaucer was married and that gap of time (that Brian Helgeland mentioned) where no one knew really where Chaucer was. And then, to take into account that Adhemar, during the movie, was supposed to be at war in Southern France. I made a "guesstimate" based on all that, the wars written of in historical sources and the fact that Adhemar's army was disbanded by Prince Edward. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The ride has given me time to think. I have come to terms with that feeling Christiana has dragged from me. I have fought it as long as I could and am unable to squash it into submission. There is no recovery. I am firmly caught in the all encompassing net that is called 'love'. How is it possible that I, Adhemar, could sink into that weakness love?

But it is possible, for it has happened. The revelation was like a jolt of lightning from the heavens above, scorching me with the knowledge that I love Christiana. Looking back, I can see it so clearly, that road I traveled in my affections for her. That inability to put to words why I wanted her was the beginning. And now the emptiness inside me when we are parted.

I love Christiana.

I can say it to myself, a whisper inside my mind. Out loud though? To any and to her? Certainty is not mine. I have tried to whisper the words, but they find no purchase on my tongue, slipping away into silence. I know she loves me. I know she has been hesitant to tell me. Her letters to Jocelyn admitted the fact several times. She has willed herself to love me and by doing so, she now loves me. The only obstacle between us now is me, and any misunderstandings that remain. All shall be rectified upon my return home.

My emotions rage about in a wild storm within me, only they are not the tortured turns of a man fighting himself, but rather the raging of a man strangely freed from the prison his own body and mind had become. I feel light and carefree, a boy once more. The past of Beatrice is ashes. I am clean, purified by the fire Christiana set in me, and I can see glimmers of the boy I once was in the man I have become, a full circle back into myself.

I do not recognize myself. I understand Will Thatcher and his perceived foolishness of months past, for I have become foolish as well.

Should Christiana crook her finger after what I have put her through, I will go most willingly into her arms and grant every wish and whim of which I am able. Her kindness drew me to her, I know that at last. That she could show me even the tiniest bit of civility during that week after I exposed Thatcher for what he was and attempted to murder him....Some part of me recognized that I needed such a thing in my life, a woman who could teach me what I have missed all these years. No longer am I standing alone, watching others enjoy life. 

__

I love!

No more avoiding my feelings, of hiding them away until I am cold and isolated once more. No more playing games. I am a husband. I am a Count, and I have responsibilities I cannot ignore. There shall be no more going off to war, save those that impact us directly.

"You have grown thoughtful, Adhemar." Prince Edward says from across the table. I look up at him from the map I have been staring at and not really seeing. 

I stare at him. The Prince is not in good health. Sickness is heavy on his features, his breath a wheezing in his chest. He has greatly aged in the months since the season end with Thatcher's win. Indeed, he hardly seems the same man. I wonder how long before he returns to England with his wife and children and how long until he dies of the injuries and sickness he now carries. I do not wish to end up as he, off at war while my family waits at home for some word. In all truth, I am not certain I agree with the politics of this latest war. It was both politically and financially advantageous for me to side with Edward in supporting Peter the Cruel back into power in Castile, but this latest war....

I do not like that Edward raised the taxes in Aquitaine to the extent he did, yet I understand why he did it. War is expensive. I also understand King Charles' support of the people of Aquitaine. Oh hell. I am coming to hate politics. I understand both sides and really do not agree with either fully.

"Adhemar?"

"My wife..." I begin, trailing off, not even sure what I had intended to say.

He smiles and gives a laugh that ends in a cough. "As much as I benefit from your expertise here on the battlefield, go home. We do not need you here. Your men, yes, but not you. You are still newly wedded in my eyes." Edward drags a chair over to sit, collapsing into it with a weariness that I sympathize with. "I understand the love of a good woman. Believe me. If I did not carry the burden of royal blood, I would be at home with Joan and our children." A shadow of pain crosses his face, swiftly passing. "You have my leave to return to your wife. Choose some of your men to take back with you and leave the rest. Whichever man you trust most can send you regular updates on how they fare."

That he bears me no ill will from that joust and my actions towards Thatcher still manages to surprise me. Prince Edward is a unique man. I waste no time in making my arrangements. I shall take twenty men with me, Germaine included. We shall leave as soon as we can load tents, furnishings and supplies into carts. I leave Douglas in charge and we set off.

I wonder if we shall meet the messenger I sent on the way. He will be returning with a letter from Christiana I am sure. The woman loves to correspond with others, though her usual written efforts were confined mostly to Lady Jocelyn. There were a couple letters sent to a Phillipa Chaucer and an Alison Randall that I recall, though I have not a single idea who the women are. I look forward to reading her letter and surprising her by arriving after only being gone a few weeks. Hopefully by then I can manage to release those three words from my lips. I wish to ride into the courtyard, swing her around and tell her I love her before carrying her to our chamber and ignoring my duties for a few hours.

We travel swiftly and two days from home, we do meet the messenger. The man is agitated, eyes wide and limbs shaking. I dismount to greet him. He slides from his own horse, nearly collapsing. "My Lord Adhemar, I am glad you are returning! I could not enter your lands!"

A coldness prickles at my back. "What do you mean?" I ask guardedly.

"Your home is surrounded." The man drinks thirstily from a cup Germaine hands him. "There are soldiers..." He stops, shakes his head. "Not true soldiers like these men, but ruffians. Thieves. A good many of them. I was warned on the outskirts to turn back or be killed, that Owen Marchant claims the lands for his own and all within his."

I shudder at the name. How very fitting that Beatrice should kick me in the ass right when I have finally put her aside. Owen Marchant would do nothing like this without her urging. I remember Beatrice's brother Owen as a mean, arrogant little snot who never could listen to a bad word about his sister. I am beginning to wish I _had_ killed Beatrice years ago when I discovered those things she had done. If he hurts my wife, Owen had better pray I am killed before I find him, for he will suffer a thousand different hells before I allow death to take him.

I leave a man with the messenger, urging my troops further down the road. Less than a two hours from home, we see a figure coming towards us in the road and slow our pace. Drawing closer, I see the figure is a woman, and that she is very familiar.

It is Jocelyn. She has not given birth yet, her belly even larger than it was at Tournament and her graceful walk reduced to that waddle pregnant women usually end up with in their final month. As I near her, she drops to her knees clutching her belly, a sharp cry coming from her. I dismount and go to her, crouching down. "Jocelyn? Lady Jocelyn?"

Her clothes are dusty and torn, a bruise darkening her left cheek and jaw. She pants, then reaches out a hand, clutching at my jacket. "Help me....Please!" Her fear filled gaze entreats me, pain etched on her fine features, the sort of expression that feeling radiates from. I can almost feel her hurts reaching out to me, raining over my skin. "It is coming, my baby is coming!"

"Germaine!" I call out. He is there, already beside me, taking in the situation with an efficient, assessing gaze.

"My Lord?"

"Get my tent and bed set up and bring that young priest Edward sent with us up here. The baby will need baptized when it comes." Jocelyn's hand clenches, her knuckles turning white. Tears begin to overflow her eyes and roll down her cheeks. A strangled noise sticks in her throat, as though she is trying to keep from screaming.

I have seen a human birth before in one of the villages in Southern France and witnessed many animal births, so I am not completely ignorant of what needs to be done. Her pain is likely to get worse as the hours pass. "Let it out. Scream if you must." I slip an arm around her to steady her.

My words give her license to vent, her first scream loud and piercing. By the frequency of her screams, her baby is coming soon. I grind my teeth. The position the two of us are in is physically awkward. If she shifts at all, we will both end up flat in the dust. Slowly, I move so that I can lift her as soon as the tent is ready.

"Where is Thatcher?" I snap. 

She gives me an exhausted glance as she pants. "Defending the manor." The last word turns into a scream and I glance at the clearing. It is taking too long to put up the tent. Her screams and panting are becoming constant, any word she tries to speak ending in one or the other. I work my jacket free and roll it up, then ease her back so her head is on it.

I am reluctant to check her progress, to see if the head is appearing. I cannot explain my reluctance. I simply do not feel right playing midwife to her, but there is no other.

"Oh God! It hurts! Get it out!" Two of my men sit at her feet, backs to us. I watch Germaine lift Jocelyn's feet and place them on the men's backs.

"She can push against them." He says quietly, bending and picking up a small branch, quickly snapping it in two and trimming off the twigs. He smoothes the branch and goes to sit at Jocelyn's head.

"For God's sake--" She screams again, eyes closing, face contorting in agony. Her scream ends with the Germaine placing the branch between her teeth so she can bite down.

"My Lord?" Germaine nods. "I think we are ready."

With a last look at her face, I move to kneel between her spread legs and toss her dress up.

Several hours later, Jocelyn is asleep on the bed, exhausted from birthing two babies. _Two_. They are small squirming bundles to my eyes, yet I realize they are actually large babies in comparison to others. No wonder her belly was so big. She was carrying two huge sons. I shift the oldest of the boys in my arms and glance at her. The priest Edward sent is getting up from the bedside, settling the covers about her, while Germaine holds the other baby.

Cool throughout the birthing process, Germaine now seems uncertain. I sit in the chair beside him. "How did you know what to do?"

He shifts the child, shrugs. "Claire."

Claire is the midwife who lives on my lands. She is young, I recall, and pretty. I wait for him to explain more fully.

"She needed help when Nell, one of the kitchen maids, went into labor and, as you were with your wife, I agreed to help her."

I nod. I only vaguely remember that day. "Your help today was appreciated."

He is quiet for a long moment. "Thank you, my Lord."

We sit in silence. Exhaustion is claiming me so, tomorrow I will leave more men here with Jocelyn and the boys and go to my home.

In the morning, I look in at Jocelyn. My men have carried out their orders well and made her and her babes most comfortable. She is on my bed, a serene beauty in the aftermath of birth. She looks up at me, a hesitant smile curving her lips. There is no stir within me, no rage that she is not mine. Jocelyn is simply another beautiful woman among the many beauties in the world. I feel nothing for _her_. She does not compare to my wife.

"Thank you. I never thought I would say those words to you ever, but I say them now." Her smile fades. "Christiana will be sorry she missed the birth. She is anxious for the birth of your own and had hoped to have her fears of labor quelled."

I stare at her, feeling the heat on my face draining away. Birth of our own?

She stares back. "I know you plan to go riding in there and you needed to know. It is not just her life held hostage, but your child in her also."

Her news has shaken me and I drop into the chair near the bed. "Is she well?" Pregnant. Christiana is pregnant. The thought of losing her now makes fear clutch my heart. To finally be free of my demons and lose my deliverer, my _love_, will surely shatter me.

"I saw her with a bow in hand, putting to use archery skills I do not remember her having. She got up on that catwalk with your men, not coming down until the gate was splintering under their attack and we had to retreat fully to the manor. When Lydia managed to get Adele and I out, Christiana was fighting like a...a..._tigress_ to defend your home."

I stand. There can be no delay. I must be home.

"You love her." Jocelyn says quietly as I turn to leave. I glance back.

"Why do you say that?"

"Your face." There is something triumphant in her voice and the gentle lift of her lips in a smile. "It shows your feelings quite plain."

Am I transparent now? "You are right. I do love her." The word comes out with only a slight tremble to it. I have made progress.

She nods, sobers. "There is more to tell you. The siege began a week ago. It went so quickly that Richard suspected a spy had recently been within the walls."

Immediately my thoughts go to Einon Chartrand. It would not surprise me at this point to find that the young knight is in Beatrice's favor.

"They got through the front, but the whole of the forces remained outside. Only the worst looking of the lot came in to try and storm the manor. Will killed one man who was attacking Adele and we got separated. Christiana, Will, Wat and Kate held the front and Lydia led myself and Adele through a maze of corridors and out a gate in the back wall, one hidden by bushes and brambles. It led almost directly into the forest and was like a tunnel."

"How many were there?" I ask, crossing my arms to still my angry trembling. No man invades my home like that.

Jocelyn shakes her head. "I do not know. I am not military minded. All I was concerned with was living. I tried to get Christiana to come, but she would not leave your home. Lydia planned to steal a couple horses and ride for a neighbor, a man named Merrick I think she said. She was sure he would help."

"He would. If he was at home. I doubt he has returned from visiting his other holdings though." I sigh. There could be little left for me. If _any_ of my family has been harmed, that man will suffer even more. Christiana....Defending our home. "Why did you not go with her and Adele?"

"Riding in my condition? I would have slowed them down. Lydia pointed me towards the road, told me to keep south. She said I would eventually come upon a town and a safe haven could be found there if the Adhemar name was mentioned."

"It is a poor army that does not surround the walls. It shows deficient planning, lack of foresight. Jocelyn, I must go. Men will remain with you and your babies. If we do not return in three days, they will pack camp and take you to your father's nearest home."

Any reply she says is unheard by me as I leave the tent. My men take their instructions and within ten minutes, we are gone.

Please, God, let Christiana still live!


	24. Battle: Outside the Walls

Title: Battle: Outside the Walls

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Adhemar fights for his home and his life.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: Originally, this and the last chapter were one chapter. They were too long, IMO, so I split them up.

~~~~~~~~~~

At the outskirts of my lands, I am surprised and greatly relieved to find the banners of Merrick D'Arcy waving. He has gotten here. The men left behind to watch over the bodies of the dead inform me that my sisters are safe and that, within a few hours of their arrival, the army had been mobilized. Merrick wasted no time in moving them out with orders to kill the thieves, all of them. Merrick, I am told, is right in the front of battle. If I know him, he will be fighting with relish, enjoying himself as he cuts down thief after thief. I look forward to reaching the front and seeing what he has accomplished. We cannot be too far behind him, perhaps a few hours at most. If Jocelyn had not needed help, we could have even met Merrick's forces on the edge.

The D'Arcy army surprised the ruffians, ran through them like avenging angels. Most of the bodies I see are older men, scarred and wearing the mark of the Marchant household. A few are wearing the mark of Mayes household. When this is over, Beatrice will pay once and for all. She cannot organize an attack on my family and walk away unscathed herself. I will find her, wherever she is, even if she is at Prince Edward's court in Bordeaux or at her husband's home in the very southernmost region of Aquitaine.

That she should wait so long to strike out at me surprises me, though it should not. After all, it was I who exposed her to her father for the slut she is; I who refused to claim her brat as mine when I knew full well she had bedded down with any man old enough to know what to do, and I who tossed her bodily from the hall when my father would not dirty his hands with that particular task. I remember she had vowed in piercing shrieks to make me pay for refusing any more to do with her. It was her nails that ripped the flesh above my eye, leaving a scar in my eyebrow. 

I have known for years just how much of a scheming bitch she is. Her devious turns have been whispered from household to household since she ended up married to old Vachel Mayes. No, I really should not be surprised that she surfaced at word of my marriage with intent to do me, and my family, harm. That I once thought to wed her astounds me.

Near the manor walls, the fighting is still in progress, though the invading force is greatly diminished. Bodies litter the ground, blood and gore staining the earth. I quickly dismount, slapping the rump of the steed to make him flee and run through the smashed gate into the courtyard. I intend to make good use of the steel I have brought with me, and swing it at the nearest enemy tunic. The man goes down with a spray of blood and a shrieking cry. I move on to the next, working my way to where I see Merrick fighting. He is almost dancing as he cuts through the men, his sword in constant motion, a smirk on his face.

Merrick turns his head at my approach, thrusting his sword into the stomach of the next opponent, giving me a wide cocky grin. "About time you showed up, Etienne. You have missed all the fun." The man slumps to the ground as Merrick viciously yanks his sword back.

The nearest siege soldier on my right is the next recipient of my anger, my fist connecting straight with his nose. We are only a few men from the hall doors and I instinctively know that the real fight shall be in there. "Fun, hell. Report."

A grunt leaves him as he swings that great sword, neatly cleaving a mans head from his body. "Your sisters are both safe in my house, Adele in perfect health with not a scratch on her. My men have killed most of these scum, but Marchant has retreated into the hall. We will have to force our way in the front. Some of my men are going in from the back." Instead of seeming daunted, Merrick grins again. It really is a shame he decided not to be a soldier. He is a good man to have at one's back.

"Lydia? Was she injured?" I call, killing another man.

"Only by you calling her a whore months ago."

My glance finds him for a brief moment.

"She is no whore, Etienne. I seduced her." 

I pause, frowning. "You."

A nod. "Who else?" His hand lifts, points. "Behind you."

We are close to the doors, just this one guard left. I jab my sword point down into the dirt, hands lashing out at this guard who attacks me on the threshold of my own home. I grab him, shove him backward with more force than is necessary, taking great satisfaction in hearing his head crack sickeningly against the stones. "We will discuss Lydia later."

"Without a doubt." 

Around us, the invaders have all been killed or gravely injured. All that is left is the inner guards and Marchant. It takes Merrick's men only a short while to break the hall doors down and we step into the room. To my surprise, Marchant is waiting in the center of the room. I had half expected him to be hiding somewhere in the manor. He has Christiana bound and gagged before him, forced on her knees. Her hair is a tangled mess about her, his dagger too close to her throat for my comfort. It is a great relief to note that her clothes, though smeared with dirt, are not torn.

A quick glance about the room reveals very few guards, those that are there rivaling some of my own men for the title of 'big brute'. They are a surly lot, unkempt and dirty, each with a charge to watch. I find the redhead of Thatcher's band trussed and gagged, struggling against his bonds with fervor, as though he expects he can free himself with his struggles. The farris and Sarah are also bound, but tied to a chair. Will Thatcher himself is under two guards yet unbound. His guards have the tip of their swords near the man's throat. A sword in a scabbard has been placed just far enough away from him to be a temptation. I read the tension coiled about Thatcher and know very well how difficult it is for him not to reach for the weapon.

My mind is clearer than it has been in months. I have only one goal: freeing my wife. Marchant cannot escape, not with Merrick's men circling this hall. He is cornered, and like a cornered animal, I know he is far more dangerous because of that. We will have to tread with care now.

~~~~~~~~~~

He has come, Etienne has come! I had not expected to see him here as our rescuer. Tears of relief threaten my eyes, but I cannot break down now; cannot be weak when I need to remain strong. The dagger of this madman Owen Marchant is at my neck, I can feel the prickle of it against my skin. Thankfully, he seems to have no interest in raping me.

He has explained himself to us, his voice arrogant, cool and tinged with madness. That woman Beatrice is the cause of all this. Apparently, she is this man's sister. He is doing this to avenge her, for he claims that, years ago, Etienne strung her along and seduced her, and when she discovered she was pregnant, he sent her to a midwife to have the child removed, then refused to marry her, calling her all manner of ugly names and maligning her with any he came into contact with, making it impossible for her to marry well. Then, because of the midwife's inept handling of her during the procedure, Beatrice cannot bear children.

I might believe my husband seduced her and even called her names, but the rest? Jocelyn never did elaborate on the woman, only saying that it would be best to ignore Beatrice and anything she says. The attitude of any regarding this Beatrice is to ignore her. Therefore, I am inclined to believe she lied to her own brother.

The look on Etienne's face would be a frightening one were I Marchant. Etienne's lips are parted slightly, eyes piercing holes in the mask of fury that has settled on him. He is very much an animal at this moment, his focus centered on this threat to his family and home. His hands bring up his sword. "You hide behind my wife, Marchant? Do you imagine her skirts protect you?" Etienne's voice is even different, a guttural quality to it, deathly calm. He is the angel of death, come to claim Marchant for hell.

"I hide behind nothing."

"Fight me, you bastard. Fight me like a man would instead of the sniveling coward I know you to be."

The dagger is taken from my neck and I feel the man step away from me, hear his call for a sword. They will fight. My heart pounds in my chest, a beating that almost hurts. I get to my feet and stagger back against the table, ripping my gag down, my eyes fleeing from the sight of my husband about to begin a death match with a madman. A movement to my right catches my gaze and I see Kate being cut free, her guards throat cut silently. Soon, it will be Etienne and Marchant left as opponents.

My tears fall freely.

~~~~~~~~~~

I do not look again at Christiana. To do so would be to let my concentration waver. Instead, I focus solely on my opponent, striking to counter his blows. Steel clangs against steel. His skill is not great and, even tired, I am more than a match for him. It is disgusting, that this man could think he could come in here and disrupt my life. Like the coward I named him, he waited until I was not here; waited until he was certain I was gone for months. His skill as a leader is laughable. What invading force does not encircle the walls save one commanded by an inept leader?

Our battle is quick and soon I have Owen on his knees, his sword sliding away. A thought occurs to me. To keep him alive to be brought before Edward could be best. He could be my proof of Beatrice's dealings. I stop myself before bringing the sword edge down and step back. Yes, Edward will mete out punishment. Sometimes a royal trial is far more painful than swift justice in the field. He will suffer.

"Finish me, then!" He hisses, glancing at his sword.

"No. You will go before Edward in Bordeaux." Thatcher is free, along with the redhead, the farris and Sarah, Merrick's men having released them from their bonds as I fought. I jerk my head at Merrick and he starts across the floor to Marchant. Breathing hard from the exertion of fighting, I turn my head, finding Christiana crying, crouched down beside the table. Going to her, I kneel, hands gently touching the bruises that darken her jaw. She is trembling, lips quivering.

Behind me, I hear the sound of footsteps simultaneously with the ring of a sword leaving the scabbard. Glancing behind me, I throw myself and Christiana back onto the stones. The scene slows to an agonizing crawl. Marchant has eluded Merrick and snatched up his sword, coming to us. I see Thatcher moving forward, closer than any others to us, his own sword in hand. Thatcher swings and for a second I think he will be too late and Christiana and I will die together here on the floor, but he catches Marchant in the stomach, the sharp edge opening the man up. Blood sprays us, Christiana screaming. Marchant's sword falls from his grasp, clanging on the stones not a foot from my face.

Thatcher rests the tip of the bloody sword on the stones and bends, holding out his hand to me. "While it is heartening to see you extend a mercy to another, Adhemar, it was misplaced in this case. You should have killed him straightaway." He waits, and, just as he begins to retract his hand, I grasp it and let him yank me to my feet.

I glance at the body. "You are right on that. I...erred." Helping Christiana to her feet, I use my sleeve to wipe Marchant's blood from her, then enfold her in my arms, pressing her face to my chest. I can feel her body trembling in addition to my own trembling. My muscles are starting to burn, the weakness of misuse settling in. I shall be sore tomorrow, bruised, but thankfully alive.

"Mercy is a skill that takes practice. Your intentions were good." He briefly cups Christiana's shoulder with one hand. "I told you not to worry, did I not?"

"Thank you." She stretches a hand out, squeezing his forearm before turning her countenance up to me. "You are here! You are alive! I thought you had gone to war." Her voice trails off into a whisper.

"I could not stay away." Thatcher moves away and I shift all of my attention to my wife. I have come so close to losing her today that I know what I need to do. It cannot wait any longer and I do not care who hears me. The words I need to say stick in my throat and I put my hands on either side of her jaw, gently, very gently keeping her there. I feel her hands clenching in my coat. "I...I love you." Her eyes widen a fraction, her lips parting. The spark in her lovely gaze has returned in full, dancing to the tune of her happiness and contentment.

She stretches up on tiptoe, lips brushing mine and I kiss her, using my own lips to reaffirm what my voice has spoken. When we draw back from one another, I hear her voice, repeating those same words back to me. "And I you."

"Well," comes Merrick's voice, irritatingly close by my ear. "As much as I hate to interrupt such a charming display of affection, Etienne...."

Again, I press Christiana to me, amused that her guests are trying not to stare at us. "Can it wait for a moment at least, Merrick? I have not even had the chance to tell William Thatcher that he is a father." I raise my voice for the last and am rewarded by a quiet in the hall.

"What?" Thatcher returns to us, concern on those boyish features. "Jocelyn. Is she well? I knew it. I knew she did not have much longer." He grins, gives a joyous laugh.

"You have two boys. Your wife is resting comfortably down the southern road apace. I left a few men to guard them. Go south and you shall have no trouble finding them." I stroke Christiana's hair, finding a peace in the action of touching the silky tresses over and over. Thatcher is out the hall door in moments, followed by the farris and the redhead. Sarah does not seem sure where to go, finally moving towards the stairs and up to the second floor. We have a measure of privacy, Merrick and I. "Now, Merrick, what is so urgent you cannot give me a few moments to be glad that my wife lives and my house still stands?"

"Lydia. I must have an answer today. _Now_." He runs a hand through his dark blond hair, an impatient gesture. "I return from my trip, am presented with a packet of letters from her, all rather hysterical, I might add, and a carefully worded enquiry from you as to the validity of her tale. Did you not receive the offer I sent you some months ago?"

"No." I lead Christiana to my chair and sit, drawing her onto my lap and pressing kisses to her face. "What offer?"

Coming to the table, he puts his hands flat on it, leaning down. "The one where I informed you that damn my family, I want your sister Lydia."

I shake my head. "No." Christiana caresses my neck, her fingers cool on my sweaty flesh. She gives me a tiny, endearing smile. "I did not receive any letter from you. The only correspondence I have had in months with anyone in your household was your steward informing me of your whereabouts recently."

"Well, I am afraid I took your acceptance as a foregone conclusion, friend, for I saw no wrong in seducing her. I admit, I did tell her it was just in case you were stubborn for some odd reason, but I was being very selfish and did not want to wait to hear from you. I have wanted Lydia since well before I had to marry Anna."

My gaze shifts from Christiana to Merrick. Somehow, I doubt he would bring Lydia back here without a fight now that he has her there in his house.

"Give her to me. I _will_ take care of her." Now he stands straight. "She was frantic when they rode into the courtyard, Etienne, but she shrank back from me, would not let me help her from the horse. I had to waste precious time reassuring her I had not played her false; that I had not seduced her just to have a woman. I mean, really, there are willing peasant girls for that if I wanted. I did not need to seek out Lydia specifically."

Suddenly, I am tired. I do not wish to argue with Merrick over Lydia. Indeed, I am relieved that she told the truth, if a bit angry that he seduced her like he did. He can have her. "Fine. Take her."

He retreats, stepping to the hall door. "I believe I shall. Oh and, do not worry about Adele. I shall see her safely back at St. Anne's." 

"The arrangements--"

"Relax, Etienne. Enjoy your victory today." He spreads his arms wide. "Enjoy your wife. She is lovely. A definite pleasure to make your acquaintance, Christiana." 

Christiana giggles, a soft sound I barely hear. 

"Merrick."

"I will marry Lydia." He grins. "Eventually." He is gone before I can say another word to stop him. It is too much trouble to move Christiana from my lap to follow after him. Besides, I know he will be true to his word. He will marry Lydia. I will leave her to him, as he obviously wants. Both his men and mine clear the bodies from the hall, servants already working on cleaning up the blood that spilled on the stones.

"I have missed you." Christiana's fingertips run across my lips and along my jaw. "I did not think to see you again."

I place my hand on her belly, palm flat. "Jocelyn told me you are pregnant." I imagine I can feel the tiny life kicking my palm, yet know it is likely too early for that. There is only a tiny swell to her belly that I do not remember being there when I left.

"I am." She covers my hand with her own.

"Are you happy?"

"Very." 

We sit there together for a long while, not speaking, just listening to the sounds of each others breath. I am blessed indeed to find her still alive and unharmed.


	25. Full Circle

Title: Full Circle

Author: Kasey

Email: kasey8473@yahoo.com

Summary: Final plans are made and secrets told.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: As much as I hate fics featuring songs, I can't resist the urge to follow in Brian Helgeland's footsteps in this. Songs that inspired me in the writing of this fic include: 'Whenever Hearts Collide' by Jack Wagner, 'Foolish Games' by Jewel, and 'To Love Again' and 'Long Time Coming' both by the truly awesome Jonny Lang. Thank you for all who have reviewed this story and those who may review in the future. 

~~~~~~~~~~

She is exhausted from the terror of those many hours she was held captive, yet I am reluctant to let her slip into gentle, rejuvenating sleep. After being away, even that short amount of time, I do not want to be without the sound of her voice and the touch of her gaze upon me. I rub my palm along her no longer flat stomach, marveling in the change and the thought that we two have begun a new life, in more ways than one. This child is a source of wonderment to me.

Long ago, I expressed my desire that she bear me many children. Faced with the first of such, I do find myself awed and a little frightened. I can admit my fear, for admitting it is no weakness, but rather a step into strength, into facing that fear. These long years since Beatrice I have been hiding myself, locked inside my hurts and fears. No more. I shall face it all with my wife at my side.

"Tell me of Beatrice," she asks, her fingers twining with mine over her belly.

Her request startles me and I raise onto my forearm to look down at her lovely face. There is curiosity at play there. Does she read my mind to know that woman was in my thoughts? No, it is simple wonderings about the woman who tried to destroy us. "What about her?"

She bites her lip, then speaks quickly, as though she is afraid she shall lose her nerve to give voice to her curiosity. "That madman painted a rather unflattering portrait of you and a beautiful one of her, not that I believed him...in full. Much of what he said smacked of flat-out lies. I remember your mother brushing off my enquiries after Lydia mentioned the woman --"

"And what did Lydia say about her?" I loose my fingers from hers and trail my hand over the curve of her hip, smoothing the nearly sheer fabric of her shift.

Christiana looks away, then back. "That to understand you on women I should find out about her." Her hand raises to my neck and around it, fingers curling in my hair, keeping me there over her. Is she afraid I will not tell her? She should not fear. I will tell her any of my past secrets she wishes to know so that there will be nothing hidden between us. I will open myself to her. It may be difficult to do so, old habits and all, but I have a firm resolve to not hide away. "What happened, Etienne? What went on with you two? Everyone ignores my questions about her, even Jocelyn, which is not like her at all. Jocelyn adores scandalous gossip. She says it makes life interesting. This woman Beatrice hurt you deeply and I would know the circumstances. I cannot live with secrets."

"I agree. There will be no secrets between us. Be patient with me though...my love." The endearment feels good coming from my lips and I smile a little. "I may still fight a bit in the telling. Beatrice is a deep wound." She waits, staring up at me, her beautiful eyes wide, guileless. This woman I have wed is everything Beatrice never was. Innocent, generous, faithful...the list could easily go on. "Beatrice Marchant came to this house when Adele and I were six, a month or so before Adele had the accident that made her as she is today. Beatrice was a pretty, petite blond thing, very obviously spoiled and I had little to do with her until a few years later."

Christiana's hand unclasps from my hair, moving to stroke my neck and chest where my shirt is parted. The gesture is a soothing one and I settle lower, relaxing my shoulder.

"I got to that age where boys begin thinking of girls as something other than an object to torment with little animals and frogs. Even at that age, Beatrice knew how to work a person so that they would give her anything she chose. I was a young fool who ignored the advice of men older than I. I was willingly smitten with her, at first adoring her from afar, then, as I grew older, adoring her close up and personal. I did seduce Beatrice, or at least I thought I was seducing her. Looking back, I can see the seduction was all on her part. She needed no seducing to spread her legs."

I frown, placing my hand on my wife's belly.

"Imagine an eager young man, convinced that this girl he adores is a loving, wonderful being. He is convinced that she gave herself to him in love, that she adores him as much as he adores her. She is up on a pedestal, a goddess in his mind, everything woman should be. Then imagine his despair to find his goddess is only human, and not a very nice one at that. I caught her with one of the squires. I stood there, unable to believe what my eyes witnessed. My faithful Beatrice was not faithful in the least, though she had claimed to be many times."

With a sigh, I move my arm and lay flush beside my wife, resting my head upon the supple curve of her breast, breathing in her lavender scent. I can still see the scene in my mind, as though it was fresh. Beatrice teasing the man, encouraging him and brushing aside his argument that what she proposed was the wrong thing to do. Her words of disdain for me and how I was a means to an end, perfectly under her control. It was after that I vowed to never let a woman control me. I would marry a meek creature who would do every thing I told her to do without question. I would have a decoration for my mantle, a pretty thing to show off and put away when I was done with her. 

"My first immediate thought was that it was I who had made her that way, that by having her a couple times, I placed a craving in her. My second thought was why she did not come to me then, if that was the case? I would have gladly, willingly...." I swallow hard. "The truth was, she planned to marry me, working her wiles on my father and hers to achieve her aim. Beatrice wanted to be a Countess someday. She wanted to raise herself up...."

"Oh Etienne...." Christiana's fingertips run along my cheek. "Not all women are like that." 

"My mother confronted her the next day. I was not the only one who had discovered the tryst. I recall hearing them screaming at each other. It was then that Beatrice took Lydia out on a horse, nearly killing her and causing the fear Lydia still has to this day of horses. Germaine was apprenticing with my father's herald at the time and I took him with me to find Beatrice and Lydia. We barely got there in time. Germaine carried Lydia back to the manor and I dragged Beatrice. She screamed the while that I had gotten her pregnant, that her behavior was my fault, but I knew her brat was not mine. After a couple times together, she had played the regretful maiden, agonizing over the wrongness of what we had done. She would have had to be greatly showing for it to be my child. I reminded her of that and she dropped the act. I saw her for what she was."

It occurs to me then that I had felt the same sense of disgust at the realization of Thatcher's playacting as a noble as I had at Beatrice's deception. The thought makes me pause in my narrative. The hatred that had welled and overflowed in the moment of my grasp of truth about Thatcher...had it stemmed from Beatrice in my past? Had I equated him with her, not truly hating _him_, but rather his actions that reminded me of Beatrice and the hurt she had caused me? Is it possible?

I sit up, attempting to work through my thoughts. My obsession had not truly been having Jocelyn for my own and beating Thatcher, but rather subjugating _Beatrice_ and taking the power from her, that power she maintained over the years by my memory of her betrayal. During the course of those Tournaments, Jocelyn had become Beatrice, my beautiful, scheming, fallen goddess who I planned to set at my side as...a pretty, silent thing to show off when the mood stuck me. Thatcher also had Beatrice stamped upon him, not at first though. That came later, yes? What should have been a healthy competition for a woman had turned into my fighting my demon, the one that had lain inside me since that day when I was just sixteen; the one who had torn me up inside in innumerable ways.

"Etienne?" Christiana sits also and I turn my gaze back to her, grateful to have her with me still.

"Hmm?" No. It could not be. I hated Thatcher because he stood in the way of my having Jocelyn. She had preferred him, which made it all the easier to hate him. Yes? I do not like being told I cannot have what I want and his very presence had told me I could not have her. 

"What? What happened next?"

I tilt my head to the side. Christiana proved me wrong on women on so many levels that I must be careful not to make the mistake of placing her on a pedestal as well. Beatrice held me prisoner in hate for far too long. When I lost to Thatcher, something inside me was released from the grasp of the demon and saw a glimmer of light in his victory over me. I was a man filled with anger and irrational fears, a man who did not even really like himself. I was at the very bottom and there was nowhere to go but up.

'Change your stars' Thatcher had said in nearly a whisper to himself. It had made no sense to me at the time. Change your stars? Men do not change their stars. Men stumble before reaching those lofty heights. I had proved that by Thatcher's fall and confinement in the gaol. But then he won the joust. It was I who fell. If that man could change himself for the better, then _why could I not also_? I had witnessed his triumph into a new status. I had seen that it _was_ possible. Why could _I _not free myself from my own pain? What was holding me back aside from myself? 

I must extend a hand to William Thatcher, not in friendship, for I do not think I could do that, but in truce. I am changed forever from our dance.

A sense of peace settles over me. I think I have found answers for questions that have plagued me far too long. I must follow my own advice and let the past die. "It does not matter what happened. Not anymore." Beatrice shaped me and my actions in the present more than I had ever realized. Deliberately looking back, I can see how she influenced me, how my motives were not what I had thought them at the time, but deeper, nearly buried in the bottom of the well that is hate.

"Not you _too_. Tell me the rest or I shall die of curiosity." Her hands turn my face and I plant a kiss on her lips.

"Very well. I saw her for the spoiled, manipulative, scheming bitch she was. Every move she made, word she said was an effort to get her way. She excelled at playing games...much like Jocelyn."

"Etienne!"

"Be fair, Christiana. Your friend loved those games she played and she played them well."

She shakes her head. "Jocelyn is nothing like that woman."

I raise a hand to stop her from going on. "Very well. She is not. Shall I go on with my tale? Or would you rather discuss Jocelyn?"

"I would not rather discuss Jocelyn." She replies. "Go on."

I ease down onto my back, one hand behind my head. "Beatrice was selfish and assumed she could play any man, or woman, to achieve her aim. My father was so disgusted with her that he refused to touch her, so it was I who tossed her from the hall doors when she would not willingly leave the manor to return home. I spoke my story to her father, supported by my father. She cried and begged and pleaded, finally throwing a tantrum when no one believed her stories. Beatrice admitted to hurting Lydia and hinted she had been responsible for Adele's accident. We left, returned home and received word later that she had almost died from trying to have her baby removed. I threw myself into training and you know the rest."

She lowers hers gaze, shoulders slumping. "How sad."

"What is?"

"To be driven by hate. She hated you, Etienne, her brother was clear on that." Her fingers grasp mine. "When I met her in the galley that day, she hated me as well, only I had never seen her before." She lays beside me, licking her lips, her next words dismissing the topic. "I am glad you are back."

"I am glad to be back." Driven by this peace inside me, I dive into the other issue between us. "I do not mean to hurt you, Christiana. Believe me, please. I know there are misunderstandings between us that need to be put to right. That day in the stable, with Sir Einon--" She turns her head away and I roll onto my side, gently turning it back. "No, do not look away. I was not angry with you. The man had said some things before that led me to believe he would harm you given the chance. I did not handle the situation well, I know. And..." While I am airing every misunderstanding, I might as well cover old ground as well, though a tiny voice inside me says to leave it be. "I misled you months ago by intimating I still felt something for Jocelyn. That was a lie. Whatever I felt for her died a quick death while you and I traveled here."

Christiana pushes my hand away and slips from the bed to stand, her back to me. "You lied to me."

I give a slow nod. "Yes. I did apologize though, something I find difficult to do." I am disappointed when she drags her dress over her head and puts on her surcoat and shoes. "Christiana?"

"You have let me believe, all this time that you still felt something for Jocelyn. How could you?" She ties her surcoat and begins pacing. "I have been in agony--"

"I know. You wrote Jocelyn letter after letter-- " 

She whirls. "_Excuse_ me? My letters? You _read_ my letters?" My mouth has run away with me and I have erred in that admission. It seems my lie does not bother her as much as my reading her letters. "You opened up my letters that I had written to Jocelyn before sending them on to her? Is that it?" Her arms cross, a protective gesture over her breasts. "Did you read the incoming letters as well?"

I open my mouth and decide to stay silent. Guilt is rising to the surface.

"Those were private! You invaded my private thoughts. You..._eavesdropped_!"

What can I say that will even justify my actions? Nothing. Nothing can justify that. "I...am..." I close my eyes with a wince. "Sorry?" There. That did not take as much effort as the apology I gave her previously. That word 'sorry' fairly rolled off my tongue this time. Her weight falls heavily on the mattress and I open one eye.

"If you open my private correspondence again without asking first, I shall be extremely cross with you. You had no right to do that." She has uncrossed her arms, not looking as upset as she did a moment ago. "If there is anything in my letters that I think you need to know, I shall read it to you." 

"Am I forgiven?"

She shrugs. "Is that all? There is nothing more you feel compelled to tell me? No other women who will be trying to lay siege here?"

"None. Nothing more. I regret past indiscretions of all kinds that have caused you distress. You are my wife, and I would not hurt you."

Christiana turns to face me, leaning down close to my face. "Then I forgive you. We start fresh this night. From here on we tell each other what needs telling."

I reach up, sliding my hand into that silken mass of her hair. "Agreed."

We begin anew, the past wiped clean.

Somewhere about midnight, I find I cannot sleep. With a glance at Christiana, wrapped in the sheets as usual, I throw on some clothes and make my way down to the kitchens. There must be something there I can nibble on until sleep again beckons. Perhaps I will light some candles and take out a book to read. The manor is quiet, save the thin wail of a baby somewhere in the house. It could be one of the twins or it could be the child of another, I do not know, nor do I care to trek about until I discover the answer.

Going into the large room that houses our kitchen, I am surprised to find William Thatcher already there and I pause on the threshold. He looks up from his cup as I approach, a wary glint in his eyes. "Evening," he says.

I nod and hunt down a cup for my own use, filling it with spiced wine. Taking a hunk of bread, I join him at the long trestle table, sitting directly across from him. "It is one of those nights." I offer as conversation. "I always find it difficult to sleep after the excitement of a battle." He takes another sip and I have the feeling he is wanting to ask me something, a weight about his silence, so I wait, tearing pieces from the stale loaf and nibbling at them. The air between us is strained, as I had known it would be, with good cause. 

"Why?" Thatcher runs a finger around and around the rim of the cup, staring at the tabletop, gaze in constant movement along it.

"Why what?"

He drains his cup and sets it down with a thud on the table. "Why help Jocelyn? You could have killed them, my babies, wounded me deeply. You could have broken their little necks and told her they were born dead. You did not do that and I want to know why." 

Confusion plays on his face, but not the innocence I had seen in him on our first meeting long, long months ago. He is no longer a raw youth, filled with idealistic visions. In a way, I am saddened by what I see. I was not the only one changed by our clash. I sit back in the chair, slumping a bit. It is a late hour for such a conversation, one that would likely be better met in the daylight after a long rest, but he is peering at me now, wanting an answer immediately. "You all have thought me such a monster. Christiana was frightened to death of me months ago."

"And did you not behave as such?" He counters with raised brows. "Did you not behave as though you were perfectly in the right to do as you pleased with little thought to others?"

I almost smile at that. "Yes, I did. As to your question, to be honest, the thought never crossed my mind. And what of you? You killed men to protect my sisters, my wife and my home. You could have taken your wife and friends and fled."

Thatcher blinks, also sitting back. "The thought never crossed my mind."

"And so we have something in common. We helped one another without thoughts of malice entering into it."

"It is not in me to abandon those in need. I do not hate you, Adhemar, only things you have done."

We are having a conversation, he and I, something I never would have thought possible. Never have we two had a discussion as such. "Your lady hates me."

"Jocelyn is very protective of those she considers her family and friends."

"We would have killed each other, she and I, had we wed in the end. I prefer a woman like Christiana." I glance towards the door leading to the hallway. Has she woken? Or is she still asleep, trim form wrapped in soft sheets? A sudden yawn slips free and I finish my wine and stand. Looking at Thatcher's bowed head, I speak. "We will not be friends, William Thatcher. Men strong in the same ways as we very rarely befriend each other. There is too much competitive urge to always be the winner in every endeavor."

He raises his chin, gaze carefully passive.

"But you and your own are welcome here. Good night." I leave before he can say anything, making my way back to my chamber. I should have thought over my statement before actually speaking it aloud, but....This will please Christiana.

When morning arrives, I am awake early. There is no other to perform my duties. I am fully in charge. No one will step in. There were many losses here, despite the timely arrival of Merrick and his army, many good men, women and children who lost their lives in defense of the lands and the manor. I will not have an easy day of it, visiting homes and discovering what needs rebuilding outside the manor walls. 

Unsurprisingly, Thatcher asks what he can do to help with the task, so I end up with him along. I do not mind the extra hands. We will be doing hard physical labor this day. While we are gone, Christiana will be putting the manor to rights, overseeing the rebuilding of the gate and the doors. In a few days, she will take Sarah and do her own visits on our lands, bringing medicines to the peasants and comforting words to those who have lost family. She learned well from my mother.

When time for the evening meal arrives, Thatcher and I finally manage to drag our weary selves in to the Great Hall. Christiana and Jocelyn are already there, along with the men who stayed behind to make the repairs here. As the meal progresses, Thatcher brings up a very good question.

"What do you plan to do about that witch of a woman who sent Marchant here? Surely you are not going to let her get away with assaulting your home?"

Our table goes quiet, all waiting for my answer. I take a drink, considering several courses of action that have been circling my mind all day. None of them seem quite right. They all seem wrong somehow. I would rather forget Beatrice, but I do have to act so she does not send more forces here. "I do not know. I need time to think on it."

Jocelyn shifts the child she holds in her arms, pushing food about her plate with her spoon. "I have an idea."

Somehow, I am not surprised that she should have a plan thought up. "Which is?"

She exchanges a long glance with Christiana, her sudden smile almost predatory. "Princess Joan." The woman's name is said with an air of great satisfaction. "Believe me Count..." Another glance at my wife and a barely perceptible nod of her head as she amends my title with my name. "_Etienne_, if you wish Beatrice punished for this, the best route is to go to Joan."

"What good would that do?" I frown at her. Her husband continues to eat, making no comment. 

Christiana clasps my hand with hers on the table top, fingers squeezing. "Women often have ways of dealing with each other that hurt far more than anything men can dream up."

"I do not doubt that." I drawl, raising my wife's hand and pressing gentle kisses upon her knuckles. "Explain how Princess Joan can aid in this."

"Christiana and I shall write to her, telling her of what has happened and asking for her royal counsel on how to deal with the woman. I have a friend in Joan, through Will's friendship with Edward, so she will reply and look into the situation. From there, it goes to her and Edward. They will look into possible political ramifications for them and something will be done. If Beatrice's husband is at war against Edward...." Jocelyn trails off, an innocent expression on her face.

I chuckle. "Well thought out. Mayes fights against Edward. He was nearly made a pauper by the taxes Edward levied after the campaign in Castile."

"And Beatrice is at back at Court in Bordeaux, yes? Trying to smooth the waters with Joan in the event that the insurrection fails miserably. Consider it. You would have to do little personally."

The conversation veers away onto other topics and soon we are done, the tables cleared away. Sitting in my favorite chair, I gather my wife to me, my gaze traveling the room. Thatcher and his family are before the fire, Jocelyn talking with Sarah, each woman holding a baby. William is loudly entreating Germaine to show his skill with a blade and I find the other two of their party sitting on the first two steps. Kate and Wat, for Christiana made certain I knew their names, are occupied with each other. A year ago, none of William Thatcher's family and friends would have been welcome here.

I have changed. I have grown and learned that what I thought was a weakness is far from it. Now, I can freely admit that I love and that love has strengthened me and made me whole. Past hurts are fading, the sting leaving them.

I have been re-weighed.

I have been re-measured.

And I am no longer lacking.

Long ago, I pictured Thatcher saying with impudent grin and wink, 'Welcome to the new world. God save you, if it is right that he should do so.'

I have been saved and I embrace that new world gladly. What a long journey it has been into this new world! Yes.

Welcome, indeed.

__

Finis 


End file.
